Since You Went Away
by PeculiarLeah
Summary: They are trapped across the world from each other, each about to begin a journey which will change them forever. A few months after Blaine was drafted he received a letter from Kurt's father telling him that the love of his life has contracted polio, a serious, sometimes deadly disease. Through letters, and eventually face to face they learn to face their new realities through love
1. Chapter 1

_Dear Blaine, August 14, 1944_

 _I'm so sorry to write like this, out of the blue, what with all you must be going through over there, but there ain't much choice in the matter. I don't know how to say this quite, so I'll just come out with it. Kurt's real sick, hospital sick, doc did a lumbar puncture and says its polio. And he's got it bad. The doctors are telling me to prepare for him to be placed in a respirator- that's what they call an iron lung. Yesterday he could still move his hands a little, this morning, even that was gone. God he's so weak, lying there, so pale, and thin, you know he's always been thin, but now, he hasn't eaten in days, can't hardly swallow, and can't keep anything down when he does. He can't move at all. He's completely paralyzed. His fever just keeps going up. He can't cough either, so they're worried he'll start choking and not be able to stop. I'm sorry to write like this, but you of anyone deserves to know, you've been such a good friend to him these past few years. I know you're sending your prayers and tell him so when he asks after you. I only hope to write soon with better news._

 _Stay safe,_

 _Mr. Hummel_

August 21, 1944

As Blaine read the first lines of the small V-Mail letter, his hand began shaking and he could feel the color drain from his face. It couldn't be true, it couldn't be. His Kurt, couldn't be thousands of miles away- halfway around the world, across a fucking ocean- lying paralyzed in a hospital bed. He couldn't be, he just couldn't be.

"You alright over there Anderson?"

"Yeah, fine sir, just um, well, just got some bad news is all."

"You get 'dear Johned'?" a voice called from a few bunks down. Blaine didn't answer, he couldn't. He couldn't think straight, he couldn't tell everyone what this truly meant to him, his true relationship to Kurt had to remain secret. Lieutenant Hawkins walked over and sat down beside Blaine on his bunk, speaking softly.

"What happened Private, you aren't in any trouble are you?" Blaine shook his head, finally getting his breathing under control.

"No sir, I just got news that a friend back home is real sick. He's got polio."

"God damn it, I'm sorry kid. Any clue as to how he's doing?"

"The letter was from his dad, and I've never gotten a letter from just his dad before. He's paralyzed from the neck down and he said that he isn't breathing right. They want him near an iron lung." Hawkins nodded slowly,

"Damn. I hope he improves. He got good people to take care of him?" Blaine nodded.

"His dad and stepmother mostly, his mom died when he was little and his step-brother is in the South Pacific. His dad owns a garage so they aren't normally too strapped for money, but he'll be in the hospital for months. I don't know how they'll cope. And Mr. Hummel always wanted Kurt to take over the business. Kurt wasn't exactly thrilled with the idea, he wants to be an actor. Wanted to be an actor. God I can't believe this is happening. I can't believe I'm not there." Blaine cut himself off, his voice shaking. He wiped his eyes, sighing.

"Don't do that to yourself private. You can't know how this will turn out for him. He could get better still. There was a kid a few blocks over from me growing up who had polio, he was in an iron lung for a couple weeks, but when he got out he learned to walk again, he's got a limp but he can walk. You don't know that won't happen for your friend. You've gotta keep your head clear kid- you can't be worrying so hard. Remember, we could jump any day. You jump with your head full of fear and you won't live to see him again. And I got the feeling if he loses you, he won't have nothing left to fight this for."


	2. August 11, 1944

_God I feel awful_ , Kurt thought, rubbing the back of his neck as he finished brushing his teeth. His throat hurt, he felt nauseous and every muscle in his body ached. There was no question he was getting sick, he sighed. He had to work in the garage today and had hoped to go out in the evening with his friend Rachel, now he certainly felt like doing neither. Not that he had much choice in going to work. Unless he was actually unconscious, his father wasn't going to let him get out of work. He spat into the sink, finding that he could hardly bend his neck at all. As he bent over a stab of pain shot down his back which nearly took his breath away. He took two aspirin from the medicine cabinet and threw them back with a swig of water from the sink. He wiped off his face looking at himself in the mirror, he looked awful, pale, with dark circles, flushed red circles on his cheeks. Running a comb through his hair and started to make his way downstairs.

As he descended the staircase his right knee started to go out from under him and he had to grab the banister to keep from toppling over. _Man I must be really sick_ , he thought, continuing down the stairs and into the kitchen. Carole was there frying some bacon and the smell made his stomach turn. She turned, wiping her hands on the apron covering her house dress,

"Oh, Kurt, are you feeling alright? You don't look well." She poured him a glass of water and brought it over, feeling his forehead, the practiced fingers of a nurse and a mother detecting a fever.

"I'm fine, it's just a cold." He reassured her, attempting a small smile. She smiled back, ruffling his hair,

"I'll make you a cup of tea. Do you want anything to eat? Your father's already at work and he's expecting you. Let him know about that fever though, he might be able to let you off early so you can rest. You really shouldn't be up at all, but he's so short staffed I wouldn't feel right sending you to bed without his say so." Kurt nodded, most of his father's employees had joined up, or gone to work in munitions factories so he was down to one old guy and Kurt until he could wrangle some high schoolers from the shop class once school started again. Kurt drank the tea Carole provided and nibbled on a slice of toast, hoping it would settle his roiling stomach. Eventually he stood shakely and made his way to the garage next door.

His father looked up from the engine he was tinkering with as Kurt entered the garage.

"Hey Kurt," he greeted him, then looked more closely and furrowed his eyebrows,

"You look rough kid, are you feeling okay?" Kurt nodded,

"I think I've got a bug or something, I'll be okay." Kurt made his way to the car he had been working on yesterday, a rusty Model A Ford whose engine he was trying to make function without the carburetor sounding like a dying hog. As he worked he tried to keep his breakfast down and not collapse from the pain in his neck and back. His hands felt clumsy and his legs felt strange, cold despite the warm day and prickling on and off with pins and needles in a circular patch on his left thigh. An hour later the nausea got worse and he had to run as best he could from the garage or else be sick on a customer's car.

He fell on his knees and started to be sick into a bush. He felt awful, his head was spinning and pounding and his back hurt so, so much. He felt tears streaming down his face, god, that was the last thing he needed, the thought as he fully started crying. He heard voices behind him as he felt his vision blurring. He curled into himself, dew damp grass cooling his feverish cheek. He felt hands on his shoulders, turning him over. His father spoke softly, kindly,

"You're going to bed, Kurt. I'm sorry I made you work, you shoulda told me you were feeling this bad." Kurt just nodded, he couldn't talk, his throat burned too badly for that.

"Let's get you inside, I told Jim to go call Dr. Warren. I'm sure he won't be long." Kurt nodded, letting his father help him stand. As he stood his right ankle rolled, and his knee threatened to collapse,

"Woah there buddy," his dad murmured as he helped him up the front steps. Hearing the commotion, Carole bustled out of the kitchen, wiping dish watery hands off on her apron.

"What's going on?" She looked concerned, she approached Kurt slowly and felt his forehead and cheeks again.

"His fever's higher than this morning." Burt nodded,

"Yeah, he just threw up too. I sent Jim for the doctor, he'll be here soon." Carole put a comforting arm around Kurt's shoulder, rubbing his back lightly.

"Let's get you to bed dear, I'll get you some water to rinse your mouth." Each step was a struggle, and as much as Kurt tried to hide it, it was becoming increasingly hard to walk normally, his legs felt like they were made of jelly. They made it about halfway up the stairs before Kurt's knees gave out fully. As they helped him stand upright again, Carole and Burt exchanged a look of fear. They managed to get Kurt the rest of the way to his room and into bed without further incident. Carole left briefly to fetch some water while Burt helped Kurt back into his pajamas. Kurt's balance was failing him and he barely managed to remain upright as his father helped him back to bed. It was a relief to finally lie down, his aching back finally finding some relief. Carole came in a few minutes later with a glass of water and some cold compresses.

"Burt, dear, run some cold water in a basin would you, and bring some towels in case he vomits again, and some more rags, I want to try and bring the fever down." Her voice was kind, but firm. Carole had been a nurse in her youth, and had returned to nursing after her first husband died. She was calm in a crisis, and was hiding her fear well. She had seen all the childhood illnesses with awful frequency. The way Kurt's legs seemed to give out under him scared her, she had seen this before and it never boded well. But until the doctor confirmed her suspicions or there was a new reason to worry she wasn't going to scare Burt or her stepson with her concerns. With Burt out of the room she decided to perform a few simple tests. Just to know, she had to know, Dr. Warren needed to know, he couldn't help if he didn't have all the information. Each minute mattered. She closed her eyes and composed herself, this was going to take everything she had. She moved to the head of Kurt's bed and slipped her hand behind his head,

"Kurt," she murmured lovingly, "can you try to bend your neck for me? Just try to touch your chin to your chest sweetheart." She felt Kurt's neck muscles twitch as he tried and failed to raise his head, his face was contorted in pain and he shook his head slightly, muttering to her barely audibly,

"I can't, why can't I?" she shushed him softly, smoothing his hair across his forehead with one hand as she palpated the muscles at the back of his neck with the other, they were rock hard with spasms. That narrowed things down, she was now almost sure of her dark diagnosis. She tried to stay calm as she moved to the foot of his bed. She cupped his toes gently,

"Can you try to wiggle your toes for me?" on the left side his toes twitched, but barely, on the right, his toes were still, completely motionless. She saw fear on Kurt's face as she stood. He knew something was wrong, he had too, and her heart ached for him. Burt came in then, with the supplies she had asked for and news that Dr. Warren was on his way. After getting Kurt settled with some more cool compresses she took Burt aside,

"I don't want to frighten you," she began in a whisper, knowing he could read the fear in her face. "But some of Kurt's symptoms have me worried. There's a possibility... I think... I think it may be polio." Burt's face went gray and he nodded slowly.

"You sit with him. I'm gonna wait outside for Dr. Warren." His voice was flat and scared. He looked helpless, it was awful to see. He went to Kurt's bed and squeezed his hand softly, Kurt's eyes were frantic,

"Dad" he whispered hoarsely, "I can't, why can't I move my toes." His voice was so small and scared it broke his father's heart. As Burt bent down to kiss his forehead Kurt's eyes began to slide shut, and he knew no more.

Burt waited, pacing on the veranda for a good twenty minutes until he saw Dr. Warren's car speed up the driveway. His mind was racing. He couldn't make sense of it, this couldn't be happening. He couldn't help thinking of Kurt's mother Elizabeth. It had been Dr. Warren who had sped to their house in the middle of the night when Elizabeth had begun bleeding during her seventh month of pregnancy. Kurt had stood in the hallway, clutching a stuffed bear, asking why mommy was crying, asking why the baby was hurting her. Dr. Warren hadn't waited for an ambulance, he had driven her himself to the nearest hospital. It had been too late by then. The baby had died inside of her more than a week before and she was riddled with infection. If Carole was right, and he'd never known her to be wrong, Dr. Warren couldn't do anything now either. There was no cure for polio. Images of leg braces and iron lungs flashed through his mind and he tried to suppress them as he met Dr. Warren's car. The two men didn't speak much on the way inside, Dr. Warren had given Burt's hand a long squeeze and that was enough. He described Kurt's symptoms numbly, his voice sounding unreal even to himself. He knew his son was in good hands. He just didn't know how much good hands mattered now.

They ascended the staircase in silence. Dr. Warren entered Kurt's room with professional calm.

"High fever, nausea, stiff neck, spasms of the hands and legs, early signs of acute flaccid paralysis." Carole whispered into Dr. Warren's ear as he moved towards Kurt's bed. Warren nodded slowly as she spoke,

"Polio,"he whispered back, "I'd bet money on it. I want your husband to go and call an an ambulance. I'll do the initial examination here and ride along. The nearest ward is at Akron Children's. Strictly, I'm supposed to take him for a lumbar puncture at Lima Memorial first, but they don't have the resources and I don't want to waste time. Between you and me, I don't like how he's breathing." Carole nodded curtly and lead Warren to Kurt's bed to begin the examination. He lifted the blankets from Kurt's legs and he groaned in pain as the cotton sheets brushed against his legs.

"Mrs. Hummel, would you get the notebook out of my bag and take notes for me? I want to be able to hand them over to the specialists in Akron." Carole nodded, taking a notebook and pencil from the bag. He knew of her past as a nurse, they had worked together for many years and fell easily back into the step of their professional relationship.

"There's definitely hypersensitivity." He took out a stethoscope and thermometer.

"Have you taken his temperature?"

"Yes, about a half hour ago, he was running just over 100." Dr. Warren nodded, placing the thermometer in Kurt's mouth. He listened to Kurt's heart and lungs and took his pulse.

"Pulse is a little quick, breathing is shallow and rapid, indicating possible respiratory involvement." Carole took her notes silently, hiding her panic with her years of training. Burt returned then, his hand finding its place in the small of her back, taking with it some of her fear.

"Ambulance is on its way" he grunted, "they said it could be a half hour, he's not the only one sick and they're having to take all the kids to Akron. The wards are so full at Lima Memorial they're bringing less serious patients to the church across the street." Dr. Warren nodded,

"I've been being called out all day, it's turning into a full blown epidemic."

"Doctor are you sure it's polio?" He asked, Dr. Warren nodded again,

"As sure as I can be without a spinal tap. I'll check his reflexes to be sure but with the other cases in the area, there's little chance it's anything else." Dr. Warren turned back to his patient, removing the thermometer from Kurt's mouth and inspecting it worriedly.

"This is higher, it's up to 101."

"Oh god," Carole muttered. "It can't keep going up this quickly..."

"I'm going to check the reflexes in his legs now. Burt, would you help me sit him up?" Burt nodded, taking Kurt's arm around his shoulder and lifting him. Even sitting he was unsteady, and he seemed barely conscious. Dr. Warren eased Kurt's legs over the side of the bed, taking out a small rubber mallet he tapped Kurt's legs just below the knee. They didn't move, just hung there. Burt felt his stomach drop through the floor and he struggled to keep his composure. He felt his wife's soothing hand on his shoulder,

"You can lay him back down now." Her voice shook slightly with unshed tears. Dr. Warren took them both aside,

"I'm going to need to do a more complete examination to know the full extent but the reflexes in the legs are absent, which means the paralysis is spreading very quickly. I'm so sorry." Burt nodded, squeezing his wife's hand, he kissed her forehead softly. He went over to Kurt, taking his hand between his own, his heart sank as he felt how weak Kurt's grip was.

"What's gonna happen at the hospital Doc?" he spoke softly, stroking Kurt's cheek as he spoke. Before Dr. Warren had a chance to answer, Kurt began to whimper, his eyes squeezing shut as his hand spasmed against his father's his the muscles of his arm and hand tightening painfully. His father rubbed his hand softly trying to relax the muscles, but Kurt screamed in pain at the touch. His legs twitched under the sheets as they too were overcome with spasms.

"God what's happening to him? Is he fitting, he had one when he was a baby." Burt cried.

"It's to be expected I'm afraid." Dr. Warren murmured. "As the virus attacks the nerves the muscles become progressively weaker, eventually becoming paralyzed. As the connection between the brain and the nerves is weakened the nerves begin to misfire, causing the muscles to spasm. It will pass in time." Burt nodded, rubbing the side of his face as though he had been slapped. Dr. Warren continued kindly. "Once he's in Akron, they will perform a test on fluid from his spine, once we have the diagnosis he will be moved into isolation. I can't promise you will will be allowed to see him. But I'll do everything I can. The fever can last up to two weeks, the paralysis can worsen for as long as the virus is active, that is, as long as the fever persists, but often reaches its fullest extent during the first few days of infection. Once the fever breaks, he will be transferred to the rehabilitation unit."

"How long?" Burt demanded, Dr. Warren shook his head.

"There's really no telling. I'm sorry." Just then, they heard the sound of an engine outside, Burt stood sharply, crossing to Kurt's window.

"They're here." he stated numbly. He turned and walked slowly back to Kurt's bed.

"Time to go now kid, let's get you up." he slid his arm under Kurt's back, his other sliding under his knees like when he had carried Kurt upstairs as a child when he fell asleep on the sofa after a long day. Kurt's face contorted with pain, his head falling back against his father's shoulder, he could no longer hold it up himself. He kissed Kurt's dark, fever damp locks softly and carried his son downstairs to the waiting ambulance. Knowing nothing would ever, could ever be the same again.


	3. August 11-13, 1944

The ride in the ambulance was long and grueling. Each bump in the road shook Kurt's body until he was out of his mind with the pain of it. Twice he vomited, the acrid smell of bile hanging over him. He drifted in and out of consciousness, when he was awake he lay listlessly watching the tops of trees pass by, wondering if he would ever walk among trees again. During his more aware moments he tried to move his legs, they were growing weaker and after a time he found he could no longer move them at all. Despite this, several times he had violent muscle spasms that made his legs bend and his toes curl. As a spasm wracked his back he felt himself scream, a high inhuman sound he couldn't control. He felt his father's hand on his shoulder.

"It's gonna be okay Kurt, not much longer now." He took Kurt's left hand, Kurt began to panic again when he could realize he couldn't move his hand any longer.

"I can't move my hand, dad" there was a terrible pain in his father's eyes.

"It's alright, its going to be alright." His voice shook, as he watched Kurt's eyes slide shut once more.

It felt as though it took hours to make it the rest of the way to Akron. When they finally arrived Burt insisted on carrying Kurt inside rather than setting him in the wheelchair which was brought out to meet them. They were immediately taken to a diagnostic room where he was laid on a bed with clean white sheets. Burt and Carole were taken with Dr. Warren to a nearby chamber where they conferred with Dr. Carmichael, one of the specialists. Kurt didn't regain consciousness until a nurse began preparing him for the lumbar puncture.

"What's going on?" he asked weakly as she began changing Kurt into a hospital issue pair of pajamas.

"You're in hospital dear, we have to get you changed, your clothes could carry the virus. We're going to run a few tests. One is called a lumbar puncture, we'll have to take you down to theatre. Now, can you sit up for me darling?" Kurt tried, and shook his head.

"I can't." the young nurse helped turn him, sliding his limp arm out of its sleeve.

"It's alright, it's to be expected I'm afraid dear. We'll make do." Nurse Carr got him settled in bed and drew a sheet over him kindly, tucking him in. He winced as she drew the covers over him.

"Is it your legs?" she began folding the sheets up, exposing his legs again.

"Yeah. Hurts. Touching hurts." he was too tired to string words together more coherently, and now his chest was feeling heavy. Too heavy to breath deeply.

"It's okay Kurt, it happens when the nerves are damaged. I can bring a frame to hold the blanket away from your legs if you're cold." Kurt smiled as much as he could manage.

"Thanks." she smiled softly, sponging his face with a cool cloth.

"Doctor will be here in a few minutes. You just try to rest." Kurt closed his eyes and drifted off almost immediately.

Kurt woke to a deep, stabbing pain in his back. He opened his eyes slowly, seeing masked doctors and nurses around him, and green surgical sheets covering him he felt a hand on his,

"It will only be a moment more dear," Carole promised, her face obscured by a mask.

"What's happening?" Kurt asked groggily.

"The doctor is performing a test for polio. He has to take a little fluid out of your spine to test, it's called a spinal tap. You'll probably have a bit of a headache later, try to drink everything your nurses give you, it will help." Kurt pursed his lips in response, his stomach still protesting the thought of eating or drinking. When the test was over, his back was bandaged and he was returned to his bed. There Dr. Carmichael assisted Dr. Warren in a more thorough physical exam. Kurt listened listlessly to the exam. They moved his body, and asked him to move, he felt disconnected, as though it wasn't his own body that couldn't move, but a shell of himself.

"Can you lift your arms?" No.

"Can you grasp my hand?" His right hand twitched but not enough to grasp, the left didn't move at all.

"Keep your leg in the air when I raise it." His leg dropped like a log back to the bed.

"Now the other leg." The same result.

"Can you wiggle your toes?" He could not.

Dr. Carmichael placed his hands on either side of Kurt's chest as he breathed in and out. Kurt could feel his breath becoming low and shallow.

"Intercostal expansion is poor. The patient may need a respirator." Breathlessly Kurt asked, "what does that mean." Dr. Warren placed a hand on Kurt's shoulder, rubbing it softly.

"It means the muscles that work to expand your ribcage when you breathe are weak. If they become paralyzed you won't be able to breathe on your own and you'll have to use a respirator. Most people call it an iron lung. If you can no longer breath on your own it will keep you alive, it will breathe for you." Kurt closed his eyes and he felt himself beginning to cry, tears rolling down his cheeks. _An iron lung_ , he thought, _two days ago I was fine and now they want to put me in an iron lung._ He was too tired to make sense of it. He felt a prick in his arm, an injection of something, probably morphine. He felt himself relax into a dreamless sleep. As the world went dark he heard Dr. Carmichael state, _the patient is paralyzed from the neck down._

Dr. Warren left Kurt with a nurse who was preparing to take him to quarantine in order to talk to Kurt's parents. The results had came back quickly, when examined the spinal fluid and throat culture immediately showed evidence of the poliovirus. There was no question. He wrote slowly, numbly on his chart. _Patient is male, 18 years of age, presenting with flu like symptoms and fast onset quadriplegia. Resting pulse is 93, blood pressure normal, temperature 102.6. Breathing is shallow and rapid, indicating likely involvement of the respiratory muscles. Stool, oral swab, and cerebral spinal fluid all positive for poliovirus. Diagnosis is acute paralytic bulbar poliomyelitis._ He closed the chart. He could finish his notes later. Now was time for the hardest part of his job, the part that never got any easier. He removed his scrubs and pushed the door of the isolation wards open, finding Mr. and Mrs. Hummel on the other side. They sat next to each other, clutching their hands together as though it was the only thing preventing them from drowning. Mr. Hummel stood as he saw Dr. Warren moving towards him. His face registered horror, shock, and confusion as he saw Dr. Warren's solemn expression.

"Burt, I am so sorry..." Burt's face fell,

"Can we see him?" Dr. Warren shook his head.

"Not for the moment I'm afraid, they're getting him settled in isolation. I'll do everything I can to make sure you can see him soon. He's receiving the best of care I promise. A nurse will be assigned to him at all times and the respiratory team is nearby should he need breathing assistance." He spoke to Carole, explaining in a professional manner.

"Are the respiratory muscles already affected?" Carole asked shakily, she had only seen respiratory polio a few times, she never thought she would see it in her own child- her stepson perhaps but still her own child. Dr. Warren nodded sadly,

"He's still breathing on his own, but he's starting to struggle. We have a respirator in his room, everything is ready should he need it." Carole nodded gratefully.

"Are you going to try inhaled oxygen. I know it's a new treatment but it may keep him more comfortable." Dr. Warren made a note on his chart, he knew not to listen to every whim of a mother but he trusted Carole's opinion as a nurse.

"I'll talk to his respiratory team and see if they have the capability. I'll let you know. Unfortunately a lot of hospitals are short new equipment with the war on. I do have to warn you, Mrs. Hummel it may be harder for me to get you into see him since you are not a blood relation." Carole nodded curtly, she understood hospital policy but that didn't mean she had to like it.

"I'll have the nurse bring you his intake forms. I'll make sure she brings some coffee too, you must be exhausted. The receptionist can help you get some food and make plans for where to stay. I know you won't want to have to make your way back and forth each day, at least not until he's improving." Carole nodded, thanking Dr. Warren tiredly leading her husband back to the line of chairs. He was clearly numbed by the news. He had watched Kurt learn to walk, and now he may very well have seen him walk for the last time. A microscopic virus had stolen the son he had known in a matter of hours, there was no way Kurt wouldn't be changed by this, and that was unbelievably cruel.

When Kurt woke again, he couldn't tell if it was day or night, or how long he had been asleep. His mouth felt full of sawdust. He was lying in a hospital bed, in a small, unfamiliar room. Across from his bed an iron lung stood ready to swallow him. He saw a glass of water on a night table next to him he tried to reach it but he couldn't. He remembered the night before, he remembered the needle in his back, and how he had been unable to move. Now he couldn't even move his hands, they lay there like limp gloves. He started to cry. His inhibitions had been broken down by fever and pain. He heard a door push open and a nurse clad in a mask and gown to protect against spreading the virus. She came over to Kurt and began checking his pulse.

"May I have some water please." He croaked, his voice weak and tired. The nurse's eyes were smiley and it made him calmer. She took the glass of water and helped him drink, talking to him softly about this and that, just trying to keep him calm really. He was able to drink a fair bit of water before he became too tired to continue. She helped him lay his head back down.

"Are you comfortable?" He nodded slightly, but couldn't lift his head back up. The nurse helped reposition his head on the pillow gently.

"I'm going to help you turn over, lying on one side for too long isn't healthy." Being turned was incredibly painful. His muscles were stiffened by spasms and his skin was hypersensitive from screaming, dying nerves. He had no muscle control so he had to be propped up by numerous pillows. It was harder to breathe on his side too, so it was a relief a couple hours later when they turned him onto his back again. That was how the next days went. Every two hours on the dot he was turned from one side to his back or from his back to the other side. His breathing became more and more labored. It became harder to eat and drink too, and often anything he drank came out his nose. During the night two nurses came bringing a machine with a tube which he was meant to hold in his mouth. The tube sent bursts of oxygen down his throat. Sixteen times a minute, helping him breathe. It eased his breathing for a while. But not enough, not for long.


	4. August 16-22, 1944

**August 16-22, 1944**

 _Dear Finn,_ _August 16, 1944_

 _Kurt nearly stopped breathing last night, I was watching from outside quarantine when I saw him turn his head to me, he was gasping for air and his lips were blue. I've never seen him so scared. The nurse came rushing out, screaming for a doctor. And when he came, he put Kurt in an iron lung. But he's still with us, and that's all I can care about any more. We just have to get the damned fever to break._

 _We love you, stay safe,_

 _Mom and Burt_

Over the next day and night, despite the extra oxygen, Kurt's breathing became more and more labored. He lay in a uncanny valley between sleeping and waking, unable to think of anything except trying to make his increasingly weak muscles take one breath after another. It was night when he woke gasping, fear as he couldn't catch his breath overtaking him. He turned his head as much as he could, catching a glimpse of his father and Carole as blackness threatened the edges of his vision. More black dots marked his vision as a flurry of movement began in his room. It didn't feel real, he thought, as he was lifted and placed on a cot. As the machine closed around him his heart leapt in terror, and in relief. He heard someone telling him to relax, not to fight the respirator but to breathe with it. He tried to relax, and soon he felt himself breathing normally. Sixteen times a minute the iron lung expanded his lungs, sixteen times a minute the bellows pushed the air from his lungs forcing an exhale. He did soon relax into the rhythm of it. He no longer had to focus on every breath and soon his feverish mind finally found rest in sleep.

For the first week the hospital staff didn't let Burt or Carole enter the quarantined ward where Kurt lay. They waited in a sterile hall, watching doctors and nurses pass by, asking for updates on Kurt's condition. The first few days were shere torture, watching Kurt's health deteriorate, once he was placed in the iron lung he seemed to stabilize. The couple rarely left, eating in the hospital canteen and sleeping in a room reserved for parents of the hospital's sickest children. Kurt rarely woke, and his parents weren't sure he could know they were there. Still, they were able to watch through thick panes of glass as Kurt slept in his iron prison. By Kurt's fourth day in the iron lung a nurse told him he could put on scrubs and a mask and visit his son. Burt half wished she hadn't. He knew what this leniency meant. They were no longer sure Kurt would survive, and they wanted him to have a chance to be with him, and say goodbye in case the worst happened. Kurt's eyes were half closed. His dark hair was lank with sweat. It broke his father's heart to see, Kurt always took such meticulous care of his hair, and to see it unkempt and unwashed showed just how far Kurt had fallen. Kurt's eyes darted under their lashes as he sensed his father's presence. His lips began to move as though he were trying to speak.

"It will take him time to learn to coordinate his speech with the lung's pattern of breathing. His fever is still so high he's likely confused." The nurse explained in a soft, kind voice.

She guided Burt to a chair placed near the head of the iron lung. The lung encased Kurt's body from the neck down, bellows at the end moved in and out in a rhythmic pattern, working Kurt's paralyzed respiratory muscles. Through plastic ports along the side of the machine Burt could see Kurt's thin chest rise and fall with the rhythm of the machine's bellows. A white sheet covered his body and his chest was covered only with an undershirt, his fingers had curled due to muscle spasms and his body was eerily still. Only Kurt's head was visible, his neck was protected by a towel, creating a seal with the iron lung. His head was supported in a pillow placed atop a small hammock. His pale, sweaty face was reflected in a mirror placed atop the iron lung. Burt realized that this was to give Kurt some field of vision since he could not even turn his head. Though Kurt had seemed to know his father was near, he was quiet now and made no indication that he was truly waking. The nurse who had shown Burt to his son's lung returned with a cart. She took out a thermometer and took Kurt's temperature. Burt looked up at her hopefully, but she shook her head sadly,

"There's no change, he's still running over 102, but it hasn't gone up since I last checked so that's a good sign, he's still fighting." Burt nodded, his lips thinned, he hated that word, 'still' it made it seem like he might stop fighting at any moment..

"We're going to continue cooling packs to bring it down, our biggest concern is keeping him hydrated, he's still having trouble swallowing, its not uncommon in polio patients."

"But those muscles haven't actually become paralyzed?" Burt asked, the nurse shook her head.

"And at this point we are hopeful that the paralysis won't continue to get worse, he's already over a week in and the paralysis hasn't gotten worse for a few days now. Hopefully he's turning a corner. The fever doesn't usually last more than two weeks." Burt gave her a small smile, hoping she was right. He didn't know how Kurt's weakened body could survive even a few more days of fever. He felt a lump rise in his throat, he couldn't help thinking of his late wife. Elizabeth had looked so like this during her final hours. Pale and thin, her cheeks sunken from dehydration and bright red with fever, her dark hair stuck to her skull with sweat, hanging limp about her face where once it had bounced with thick curls. He stroked Kurt's sweat soaked hair softly with gloved hands. Kurt's lips curled slightly in recognition and he mouthed what looked like the word 'dad.' His eyes were now half open, somehow both vacant and terrified at the same time. Burt spoke to him softly like he were a small child again.

"Hush, bud, don't try to talk just yet. Save your energy." He stroked Kurt's hair, and his cheek. It was all he could do, with the iron lung in the way he couldn't hug him, or even hold his son's hand to tell him everything would be alright. He couldn't promise that anyway, not while being honest, not anymore. He turned in his chair, feeling a gloved hand on his shoulder.

"I've brought some crushed ice, try to have him suck on it, it should be a little easier to swallow this way." the nurse handed Burt a small paper cup and spoon, he nodded, taking them gratefully. "There's a call button on the side of the machine, press it if he starts to choke." She indicated the small device hanging from the side of the iron lung. Burt couldn't speak and so simply nodded again. He spoke softly to Kurt, not saying anything in particular, just soft little things he remembered Elizabeth whispering to Kurt when he had been ill as a small child as he slowly spooned ice chips into Kurt's mouth. He managed a few small spoonfuls before he began pursing his lips, refusing even this small bit of hydration. He still wasn't fully conscious, delirious with fever, so he couldn't understand that his father was trying to help. He just knew his throat hurt more than it had ever hurt in his life. Worse even than when he had had measles when he was nine. When he tried to swallow it felt like his throat was closing, he felt like he was choking an a primal fear overtook him, and so he refused even this slight bit of water. His mouth opened, working like mad, he felt his throat closing and the melting ice chips dribbling out of the corners of his mouth. His father's eyes looked frantic and he stood, pressing the call button,

"Nurse! Nurse! He can't swallow, my boy can't swallow! He's choking! God please help him!" Kurt watched as though in a haze, he tried desperately to swallow and a little went down, he tried again and failed, the spit and cold melted ice now coming out his nose. His breath was forcibly steady and he felt some of the water go down his windpipe, but he couldn't cough. A nurse came into his field of vision, a tube and basin in her hands,

"Spit, and try to hold the tube in your mouth." He spat out as much as he could and tried to stay calm as the nurse suctioned out the rest of the spit and melted ice. He looked up seeing his father look more frantic then he'd ever seen him. The only time that had come close was when his mother was in the hospital, after the baby died inside her, leading to the infection that eventually killed her.

"What the hell just happened?" Burt thundered,

"Please keep your voice down sir, there are other patients on the ward. What happened was that his throat closed, this is the trouble swallowing we spoke about. Once the virus reaches the cervical spine, patients often have weakness of the neck and throat muscles. We don't have a choice but to keep trying to get fluids into him."

"And if you can't? If this keeps happening every time he tries to drink?" He shot back at her, exhausted and scared. The nurse sighed sadly,

"Then we try a nasogastric tube or IV saline. We're not gonna give up on him." Burt sat back beside his son, who despite the ruckus had lost consciousness again. He felt himself start crying, his head in his hands. The nurse's soft hand was on his shoulder, and the world seemed to slow down for a moment.

"I can't lose him, god I can't lose him" he sobbed. He looked up and saw Kurt's eyes open again, he was crying too. Or at least tears fell from his eyes, he couldn't make a sound.

"I'm so sorry Kurt" he whispered, running his fingers through his son's hair. Kurt wanted to reach out, past the iron lung to hold his father's hand. But he couldn't move. Trapped in his own body he finally drifted again into unconsciousness.

Burt woke to a gloved hand on his shoulder. He had nodded off beside Kurt, his hand still resting on his sleeping son's forehead. A new nurse was placing some wet cloths in Kurt's mouth for him to suck, hopefully to trigger normal swallowing and get some water into him.

"You should go to your wife and rest, he'll probably sleep most of the night." Burt rubbed his eyes.

"Is he in pain? He could never sleep when he was in pain. He would get growing pains when he was little... he'd be up all night crying." The nurse's face fell, the poliovirus burned through nerves and muscles. The pain of the disease could be extreme she knew, and because of the respiratory involvement they hadn't been able to risk morphine.

"I wish I could say he wasn't, but polio can be very painful. He has nerve pain, muscle spasms. He'll be in a lot of pain. But we are doing everything we can to manage it. With the respiratory support we may be able to risk a small dose of morphine if he isn't able to sleep without it. But truthfully, with the fever he's been sleeping without pain managment. We're doing everything we can to keep him comfortable. The best thing you can do for him right now is to get some food and some rest so you're able to stay strong for him." Burt stood wordlessly, bending down to kiss Kurt's forehead before nodding to the two nurses in goodbye. He walked out in a daze. Carole was waiting just outside for him. He shook his head as he sat down beside her. Seeing Kurt up close like that had made everything too overwhelming to comprehend. He looked up at his wife, his eyes pleading.

"Carole, you gotta be straight with me. What are his chances of getting out of that thing?" Carole sighed, "It's hard to say at this point, the paralysis came on fast. And he's older, the paralysis tends to be more long lasting and more severe in adults." Burt leaned over to kiss his wife's cheek.

"Thanks for telling me." They sat in silence most of the night, eventually going to sleep in the small bed provided for them outside the isolation ward.

The next days and nights went by in much the same manner. Kurt got neither better, nor worse, drifting in a state between waking and dreaming, most of the time unaware of his surroundings. Burt was allowed in for short intervals, the rest of the time he and Carole sat in hard back chairs outside the isolation wards waiting for news. It had been a week since Kurt had been admitted, and nothing seemed to change except for the worse. They had only just received hastily scribbled notes from Finn and Blaine expressing their concern for Kurt. There was something unbelievably cruel about sending that kind of news through the mail Burt thought, but it couldn't be helped. He too had been a soldier, deployed in Europe for a little over a year in 1917, he knew the letters were a lifeline, they could bring or take away a soldier's most important weapon: hope.


	5. August 25, 1944

**August 25th, 1944**

 _Dear Finn,_ _August 30, 1944_

 _Kurt's having me write this because he can't just yet, but I'll give you an update first because he was too tired to say much. His fever broke a few days ago and he'll be taken out of isolation tomorrow, but he's got a long road ahead. He's still paralyzed and he can't breathe on his own just yet but the doctor says not to lose hope, they will be working to wean him off the iron lung as soon as he's a bit stronger. All his doctors and nurses are tellings us lots of people can learn to breathe on their own again, even after being in a respirator for months. He's swallowing easier- managing to eat a bit, mostly just liquids for now but it's still an improvement, and his nurses aren't so worried about him choking any more. And he's starting to move a couple of his fingers again. He's got one of his thumbs back and the index finger on his right hand. They're weak but he can move them a bit. It may not seem like much, but it gives us hope h_ _e'll recover. I'm not giving up hope yet that he'll walk again, and you shouldn't either. Anyway, he says he misses you, and tells you to stay safe so that you can come home to see him. He says he promises when you see him next he'll be up and walking again. We'll do everything on our end to make sure he does, you just get yourself home safe, you hear?_

 _All our love,_

 _Burt, Mom, and Kurt_

Kurt awoke bleary eyed and confused. He tried to move, then remembered he couldn't. It wasn't totally in vain though, he felt one of his fingers give a weak twitch, he tried the other fingers and found he could bend one of his thumb ever so slightly. He relaxed a bit, glad for this slight improvement but too tired to be more elated. He tried to lift his fingers, and to flex his wrists, and to move his arms and legs but found he still could not. He looked around the room for the first time, as much as he could using the mirror above his head. He was alone in the isolation room, the bed he had lain in when he first arrived was gone and he could see only a small cart and a metal chair. Looking far to his right he could see the reflection of a small closed window. Bright morning sun shone through and created a puddle of light on the green sterile linoleum floor. Though he felt sticky with cold sweat, he felt cool, and more alert then he had since he first got sick, though physically he was still exhausted. His body ached, but it was duller now, coming deep from his muscles, it was no longer the burning pain of the virus burning through his body, leaving devastation in its wake like fire. He felt rung out, exhausted to his bones. Bones which now made up limbs he couldn't move he thought, maybe limbs he would never move again. Still, his fever must have broken during the night and that had to be a good thing. He tried to take stock of all that had happened. But his memories past days were a blur he couldn't yet make sense of. He didn't even know what day it was, he had been burning up with fever for god knew how long. He was completely paralyzed, trapped in an iron lung, an iron coffin breathing for him because he couldn't do it on his own. He tried to make a noise, to call to someone to say that he had awakened but could only produce a faint choking gurgle. But no one heard. In the mirror above his head he saw a small device laying nearly against his cheek, some kind of call button. He tried to turn his head to press it but, though he could feel the muscles in his neck move, the iron lung was sealed too tightly for him to be able to shift his head. And so he waited, watching the clock on the wall tick away fifteen minutes before a nurse came in. A smile broke across her face as she saw that Kurt looked both awake and alert.

"Good morning, Mr. Hummel. It looks like you're feeling a bit better." Kurt couldn't answer, couldn't even nod his head. She gave a soft, understanding smile, "You can blink once for yes and twice for no." Kurt blinked once, "good, good, I'm going to ask a few more questions okay? Then doctor and your father will come in alright?" Kurt blinked once again. She took out a thermometer from the small cart against the wall and took his temperature. It was normal.

"The fever broke, I'm going to inform your father, I'll be back in a moment. But first, another important question, are you hungry?" she asked with a grin. Kurt smiled and blinked once.

Since he had been admitted, he learned from the nurse, his father and Carole had been allowed to stay in a small room off the isolation ward, reserved for parents or spouses of patients who lived far from Akron. It took less than ten minutes for the two to appear beside Kurt's bed. Though previously Carole had not been allowed in his room because she was not a blood relative, the nurses seemed to look the other way this morning. Both Carole and his father still had to wear protective gowns, gloves, and masks. When the door was finally opened, his father was at his side in a heartbeat. His hand was stroking Kurt's hair and suddenly Kurt was crying. He didn't know why exactly, he was simply overcome with the enormity of it all. He couldn't speak. Couldn't really cry even, because his breath was artificially controlled. Truthfully he knew very little about what had happened to him over the past two weeks. He remembered being admitted, remembered vaguely being placed in the iron lung. He had been relieved then, he recalled, it had been so hard to breathe. That had been early in his hospitalization and he remembered very little of what had come after. Strange discombobulated flashes mostly. Nothing coherent. He wanted to ask what had happened while he had been unconscious, he wanted to ask what day it was, whether he was going to get out of the iron lung, when he would be able to move again. But he could do none of these things, so instead he gave himself over to tears, and to the comfort of his father's hand on his cheek. He moved his mouth, trying to form some word which would be recognizable on his lips. His father turned to Carole, speaking worriedly,

"I think he's trying to talk. He's scared." Carole came into Kurt's field of vision, her kind voice comforting, making Kurt feel a little calmer. She stroked his cheek softly,

"He won't be able to, Kurt darling, try to calm down sweetheart, we'll explain everything. Just try to relax. You'll be able to talk again soon, the way the iron lung breaths for you means you'll need to learn to talk with it. It'll take a little time, but we'll make do until then. It's going to be alright." She pulled up a chair and sat so she was at Kurt's eye level.

"Are you wondering how long you've been ill?" Kurt blinked once, deliberately so Carole would understand. Carole nodded in understanding, smoothing Kurt's bangs back from his forehead. "That's good darling, keep doing that, once for yes, twice for no, we'll talk through everything, it will just take a little time dear." Kurt closed his eyes, calming himself before opening them again to look up at his father at stepmother. Carole continued softly, all the while stroking his hair lovingly.

"I don't know how much you can remember, but you've been here for about two weeks. You got sick on the 11th, today's the 25th, it's a Friday. You're at Akron Children's Hospital in their polio ward, that's why you can't move. We're gonna do everything we can to get you better. I know it's hard, it's hard on us too, but we're gonna get through this okay? I promise." Kurt felt tears in his eyes again, but blinked once again. Trying to reassure them that he would be okay. His father and Carole smiled down at him. He was growing tired once again and closed his eyes as he felt his father's hand in his hair.

"Get some sleep bud, you've really been through the ringer. We'll be right outside when you wake up." Kurt blinked his eyes, smiling up at his father as sleep overtook him.

He only napped for about a half hour when he was awakened to eat. A nurse he didn't recognize came in with some food. She moved the cart with the food tray next to Carole.

"Would you like to feed him?" Carole nodded, indicating the nurse could leave them.

"Make sure to use the call button if he has any trouble." Carole agreed, moving the button towards her as the nurse left the room. Carole reached for a cup of apple juice from the tray. She smoothed Kurt's hair back from his forehead lovingly as she moved a straw towards his lips,

"Just try a little to start," Kurt sucked up the sweet liquid obediently, held it in his mouth for a moment, them swallowed. It was easier than the last time he remembered drinking. His throat no longer hurt at least, he thought, though he still had to work to coordinate his muscles to swallow. Carole grinned at the small victory, watching proudly as Kurt kept drinking. She looked like she wanted to clap when Kurt made a slurping noise, indicating he had finished.

"That's wonderful Kurt, well done! Do you want to try some soup now?" Kurt blinked once. He still felt thirsty, hungry even. Over Carole's shoulder he saw his father smile slightly, but there was sadness behind his eyes. As his stepmother fed him small spoonfuls of chicken broth he watched his father's eyes and felt his sadness. As he watched his father's face, imagining the pain he must feel at losing his one active and healthy son he began to feel shame at his helplessness. He had only just achieved the independence that came with adulthood and now it had been taken away from him, maybe forever. He managed to finish the broth but then closed his eyes, he didn't have the energy for Carole's mothering or his father's disappointment. Eventually he fell asleep, exhausted from the weeks of illness, and from the idea of having to live with his new reality.

Kurt woke again a few hours later he felt more alert than he had earlier, still tired and sore, but a little better. Soon after he woke a nurse he didn't recognize came to change his napkins, empty the catheter bottle, and give him his first wash since he had gotten sick. Though she worked quickly and efficiently, the constant changes in pressure as she opened and closed the port holes on the side of the respirator left Kurt feeling out of breath and panicky. As the pressure changed his breathing pattern was interrupted and there were points where he audibly gasped for breath. The nurse reassured him throughout, telling him it would all soon be over, but as he struggled to breath a primal fear took over and Kurt couldn't grasp her calming words. From inside the iron lung she grasped his hand through a rubber glove, promising somewhat sharply that it would all be over soon. It was and soon he was breathing normally again. The nurse moved to the head of his bed and began preparing more soap and water in a basin.

"I'm just going to give your hair a bit of a wash. That'll feel nice won't it." Kurt smiled and blinked once. He always took great care with his hair, washing and pomading it into a fashionable coif. The feeling of sweaty, greasy hair against his forehead had made him feel dirty and uncomfortable now that he wasn't feeling so sick. Though the hair wash made his neck hurt, and the cold hair drying against his head made him chilly, the feeling of being fresh and clean was wonderful. He gave the nurse a mouthed thanks and she smiled at him.

"A doctor will come in a few minutes to do another spinal tap. If that comes back clear you'll me moved out of isolation in a day or two." Kurt blinked once, giving her a half smile.

"Do you think you can eat or drink something? You're still not getting a lot of fluids." Kurt thought for a moment then blinked once, indicating he would try. He had begun to remember how much trouble he had had swallowing over the past days of fever. But he knew he was swallowing easier. He had managed earlier in the day and he didn't have to work quite so hard swallow his own saliva now that his throat didn't hurt so much. He could tell the muscles in his neck were still weak, but he felt thirsty, and for the first time since he got sick he actually felt hungry. The nurse, Nurse Howard, whose name he now saw was written on a name tag pinned to her gown, smiled.

"I'll get you something to drink, do you want to try some jello too?" Kurt blinked once in assent. She left, and soon was back with coca-cola and orange jello. Kurt ate and drank slowly. Swallowing was still difficult, but nothing he drank came up out of his nose, and the sweet gelatin slid smoothly down his throat with little effort. Eating had exhausted him, so he dozed for another hour or so before a small group of doctors and medical students came in to run more tests, including the painful spinal tap. Dr. Gowen was performing a physical and neurological examination through the portholes on the side of the iron lung making Kurt's breathing difficult again. More though he hated how Dr. Gowen talked as though Kurt wasn't even in the room. A specimen to be examined. A body that couldn't move. Lying there, covered only with a thin sheet struggling to breath, Kurt felt truly like a cripple for the first time. He closed his eyes. Trying to breathe, trying to ignore the doctor's speech as he broke Kurt's body down into an amalgamation of dysfunctional parts.

"The patient is a quadriplegic, there is the beginning of deformity in the legs, Jones what is that caused by?" a young man only a few years older than Kurt answered.

"Muscle spasms during the acute phase of the disease sir." Kurt made eye contact with the young man, grimacing to show his displeasure the only way he could.

"Correct, now this young man's fever has only just broken, what are our goals before removing him from isolation? Sumner?" a second young man answered, earning another glare from Kurt. At least Dr. Gowen had closed the ports on the machine so he could breathe easier, Kurt thought.

"First we have to make sure that is no longer carrying a viral load. This is done through a sample each of blood, saliva, stool, and spinal fluid. Next Mr. Hummel must be bathed and he must be moved to another respirator so the machine can be sterilized and all the linens changed." Kurt grimased again. That seemed like an awful lot of poking, prodding and moving to him. He understood that it was necessary to make sure no one else got sick, but that didn't make the idea of another needle in his back seem any more pleasant. His breath hitched as Dr. Gowen opened the portholes once again. Kurt felt gloved hands lifting his legs, then his hips. He closed his eyes against the pain of movement, and the humiliation of being manhandled without any way to control it.

"One major problem we have in respirator patients, particularly those with significant paralysis such as this young man, is the decubitus ulcer. A patient in a respirator cannot be turned as easily as a patient in a bed, and a quadriplegic cannot shift position alone so pressure builds on certain areas of the skin. This patient has the beginnings of ulcers on the right buttock, the elbows, and the ankles. These are all frequent areas of breakdown. These are mostly cared for by nurses but should a patient have particularly severe ulcers you will be involved in the care. Now we have a new weapon in the war against pressure sores. What is it? Watson?" A third young man's hand had shot into the air

"Penicillin sir." Kurt wanted to punch both of them.

"Good Watson, now what other types of infection are common in quadriplegic respirator patients? Sumner again? Good." The young man who had spoken before answered again in the same detached manner.

"Bladder infections are common since the patient often relies on a catheter, lung infections are also common because the patient can't clear secretions from the airways." Now Kurt really wanted to hit the young man. _Please refrain from talking about the tube up my dick_ he imagined saying. He imagined himself standing up, startling the men, he imagined the stupid looks they would have when his fist connected with their noses. But he couldn't move, he couldn't even lift his hands. He focused on his hand, thinking _I'm not as helpless as you think Doctor, take a look at this._ He felt his thumb bend slightly, a small victory, but a victory nonetheless. He saw Dr. Gowen's face change, look startled, even flustered in front of his students. Then a broad grin spread across his face.

"Mr. Hummel! Do that again!" He felt a rubber glove against his hand and he scraped the nail of this thumb against it. Dr. Gowen didn't look anything but fully happy at the small movement. That made Kurt somewhat annoyed but also gave him at least a bit of respect for the doctor. _I suppose he isn't a total ass, maybe just half an ass_ Kurt thought, moving his finger once again and earning grins from the medical students who had gathered around the plastic viewing windows of the machine.

"This is a good sign Mr. Hummel, a very good sign indeed. Have you regained any other movement that you know of?" Kurt blinked twice, _at least now he's talking to me_ Kurt thought.

"That's alright, it takes time. Can you try and move your other fingers, maybe your other hand?" Kurt tried, but felt no movement. He blinked twice again, feeling anger rise in his chest at his failure. Dr. Gowen's annoying professionalism had returned,

"Mr. Hummel, we're going to perform a respiratory exam now, then perform the spinal tap and take the other samples." Kurt didn't know what respiratory exam entailed, but he found out soon enough as two clamps were released and he was slid partially out of the iron lung. A primal fear overtook him. He tried to breathe but it felt like he was trying to breathe with a ten ton weight strapped to his chest.

"Watson, be ready with the bag breather, he isn't maintaining well. We're gonna have to do this fast. We'll leave a full respiratory exam for a few more days." Immediately Dr. Gowen was all calm and professionalism. He moved quickly and deliberately, turning Kurt onto his side. The movement made Kurt gasp in pain, on his side he struggled even more to inflate his lungs.

"Change of plans Watson, start now. No use making him uncomfortable. I only want the spinal tap done outside the respirator, at least for now, there's just no way to safely do it inside. We'll have to get blood and stool in a couple hours when he's more recovered from the spinal tap. I want ten breaths a minute from you Watson, move it up to sixteen if he's still in distress. Keep it steady so you get him just enough air, don't overdo it." Kurt was seeing stars by the time he saw a black rubber mask descending upon his face, air rushed down his throat and he felt himself relax. These men might have no bedside manner to speak of but he was suddenly enormously grateful for their training. As he felt the stabbing pain of needle in his back a comforting hand came down on his shoulder. Looking up, he saw the young man who was working the bag breather looking down at him with a comforting smile. The hand left his shoulder and returned to the black rubber bladder which was sending air down Kurt's throat. From behind him he heard Dr. Gowen talking again,

"Sumner, will you hook him up to some saline, it will help replenish his spinal fluid, maybe avoid a full on migraine. His chart says he's still not getting a lot of fluid orally." The sandy haired young man nodded and left the room, a few minutes later Kurt saw him return with a bottle of IV saline, he felt a prick in his arm and what must have been a bandage being wrapped around it before Sumner left his field of vision. Kurt closed his eyes, trying to pretend none of this was happening. Eventually he felt himself moving, and heard the clamps of the iron lung close again his breathing became steadier and more mechanical. The pain in his back was worse than the first time he had a spinal tap. He had been too delirious with fever to comprehend the pain he supposed.

"He's gonna be a hard one to wean off the lung, I can tell you that much" Kurt heard one of the residents whisper to another, he opened his eyes and glared towards where he had heard the voice. Looking up into the mirror above his head he saw a black haired resident looking bashful. _Good_ Kurt thought. _I'll show them, I'm gonna get out of here. I'm not just gonna get out of the lung, I'm gonna walk out of here on my own two feet._ The residents and medical students filed out a few minutes later, and soon too did Dr. Gowen. Finally left alone Kurt began to feel claustrophobic, trapped in the respirator, trapped in his own paralyzed body. He tried to calm himself, eventually succumbing to tears once again. As tears began to run into his ears he closed his eyes trying to calm himself. He listened to the mechanical whooshing of the iron lung and imagined it was the sound of waves lapping up on the shore of Lake Erie. _Remember last summer_ he thought _remember the camping trips, remember those kisses, remember his touch. Remember back at school, that first kiss. Remember, remember._ The memory came easily. It had been after school, he and Blaine had been studying before choir practice. Blaine had leaned over and kissed him, it had been unexpected, fast and clumsy. Then Kurt had leaned over, his hand on the side of Blaine's cheek and kissed him long and sweet. He remembered tasting coffee on Blaine's lips, mixing with the sweet heady taste that was the substance of his lover's every atom. He imagined what his body must look like now, a shell of the man Blaine had fallen in love with. Motionless limbs, his emaciated frame, the catheter sticking out of him. It didn't feel like his body any more. It made him feel strange, not angry exactly, not disgusted exactly. Something in between. A violation and thievery of the body he had lived in. As though he had gone to sleep and woken up in someone else's body. He supposed in a way he had. He had awoken into a new world, one where his place was fundamentally different, one which even more than before was not made for him. He had entered the land of paralysis and he had no idea how to dig himself out.


	6. August 30, 1944

**August 30, 1944**

The next days were a waiting game, mostly waiting for Kurt's labs and tests to come back fully negative for poliovirus so he could be moved out of the isolation ward. His spinal fluid had come back normal, but there was still virus in other samples for a few days after his fever broke. His father was now taking trips to and from Akron as often as possible. He had to return to work but Carole was able to stay with a friend from her nursing days who worked at the hospital. She would be able to stay at least until Kurt was out of isolation. She spent most of the day with Kurt, helping feed him and relieving his nurses of some of his care. She spent hours reading to him, often talking to him even though he couldn't respond yet. A few times a day she would help a physical therapist stretch the muscles of Kurt's arms and legs. Using portholes on the side of the machine to gain access to his paralyzed body they would move and stretch his muscles, they couldn't do much because of the confines of the machine, but even what little they could do was painful. During the fever he had severe muscle spasms, now his muscles were tight and painful. Even gentle movements were very painful, but because Kurt couldn't move any of his muscles himself, the stretches were the only way to take pressure off his limbs and slowly relax his hypertonic muscles. She even helped tend to the pressure sores that had developed on his hips, elbows, and ankles. He was grateful for it, even though Carole was not his mother, it was easier somehow to let her do these things for him then a nurse he didn't know.

The stretches were apparently part of a new form of treatment called the Kenny Method. It had been developed by an Australian nurse and was now becoming popular stateside. It involved the application of heat and the stretching of the spastic and paralyzed muscles of polio patients. He couldn't have the hot packs, as they apparently wouldn't fit in the iron lung, so passive stretching and some massage was really all the treatment he got to attempt to improve the function of his limbs. This too was a waiting game. It became clear to Kurt that though there was a heavy focus on physical therapy, there was precious little that could actually be done to reinvigorate his muscles. His muscles would do what they wanted. Either he would recover or he wouldn't and it didn't feel fully within his control, Kurt thought, while Carole bustled around, making small talk.

"I'll try to see if the nurses have some small pillows for under your knees so your back doesn't strain, your knees have gotten very tight, they keep drawing up rather than lying flat as they should. I don't like you flat on your back all the time either, you'll just keep getting bed sores." _Can't help that can I._ Kurt thought, he desperately wanted to be able to talk, but he had only been able to make short sounds, never full words, before being cut off by the respirator. Just controlling his swallowing with the artificial breathing pattern was difficult, talking was still beyond him. He felt his breath hitch as she opened one of the portholes to reposition his legs. He let out a garbled groan as she lifted his legs one by one, rubbing them briskly.

"I know it hurts Kurt, your muscles are really stiff, I'm just trying to keep up the circulation in your legs, you've already got the start of a couple sores on your heels and they can't heal if there's not enough blood flow." As Carole continued her slow stretches of his limbs Dr. Carmichael entered. He was young, and handsome, Kurt remembered him as one of the doctors who had been with him during his admission.

"I have good news, his lab results came back clear, we're moving him out of isolation in the morning!" Carole smiled, laying Kurt's legs down and closing the machine.

"That's wonderful doctor! My husband will be so pleased. Will he be moved to the rehabilitation center?" Dr. Carmichael shook his head.

"Not yet, he'll be moved to a room on the respiratory ward, he'll still need round the clock nursing. He can't be moved to the main polio ward until he's breathing at least partially on his own. On the respirator ward he'll receive daily respiratory therapy and physical therapy. We'll start by working on improving his swallowing ability, then learning to talk, it seems that because some of the muscles in his throat were affected he's having some trouble with coordinating his swallowing to the machine, but it seems to be improving quickly. We'll be starting him on solid foods once he's on the ward. I'll be part of his pulmonary team so I'll be there during the move, and I'll continue working with him to help keep his lungs as healthy as possible. I'll also be overseeing his progress as we wean him off the respirator." From the mirror above the iron lung he saw Carole's broad smile again, he smiled up at her, trying with his eyes to thank her, and to tell her that he would work as hard as he could to get better. Dr. Carmichael came up next to his head and sat down with his chart.

"Are you breathing alright with the machine settings as they are? You're not feeling too tired or out of breath?" Kurt mouthed the words _I'm okay_ , and Dr. Carmichael made a note in his chart. "We'll keep you at 16 breaths a minute for now then, unfortunately the faster you breath the more you're interrupted when you try to eat and talk, but we'll make do. Are you still having muscle pain?" Kurt blinked once.

"I'll get you some aspirin, it's not uncommon unfortunately. Where are you having the most pain?" Kurt mouthed to Dr. Carmichael again, _back_.

"Your back?" Kurt blinked once again.

"Once you're out of isolation we'll have an orthopedist come in to see if there's anything more we should be doing. For now we'll just make sure we keep up with pain management and get some more cushioning and support behind your back. Does that sound alright?" Kurt blinked once.

"Now the next thing I want to do will be a little harder. I want to get a baseline of how much you're able to breath on your own. We won't go longer than you you feel comfortable, if you start to feel too unwell I want you to click your tongue so I'll hear even if I'm looking down to make notes. Do you feel ready for that?" Kurt blinked in agreement, even though he felt fear growing in his chest. The last time he was taken out, just days ago, he hadn't been able to breath on his own for more than a few minutes. The feeling of not being able to breath had been awful, bringing out in him the most powerful and overpowering form of primal fear. Dr. Carmichael must have seen the fear in Kurt's eyes because he put a reassuring hand on his forehead, ostensibly checking his temperature but Kurt knew it was really there to tell him that he would be alright.

"Do you mind helping Mrs. Hummel? The nurses say you're still quite competent, and that you've worked with other respirator patients." Carole nodded, she was prepared, already in scrubs, though she no longer had to wear a mask. "Will you go ask at the nurse's station for a linen cart so you can change the bedding and put in some more supports while I do the respiratory exam, two birds with one stone eh?" Carole agreed, smoothing Kurt's hair before leaving to track down linens and pillows at the nurse's station.

"You're lucky to have a nurse for a mom, she'll be a real help once you're well enough to go home. A lotta kids, the parents aren't able to come around so much, they've got work, other kids at home. Once the kid's ready to go home, alotta times they don't have the resources to care for them. I'm glad that's not how it'll go for you. You got a lot better shot of getting better with strong support, and you've got that. No doubt in my mind." Kurt gave the doctor a small smile. It didn't take long for Carole to come back with a cart stacked with cushions, linens, and supplies to wash and change him, including the antiseptic ointment for his bedsores.

"Are you ready?" Carole nodded, her face looked somewhat grim. She had worked on the children's ward of Lima Memorial for many years and she had cared for a fair few polio patients. Those in iron lungs had often cried or tantrumed if they were able when the machine was opened. Most couldn't fully cry as they couldn't fill their lungs themselves. Some would spit or bite in anger at having the life giving machine stopped. Their scared little faces had stayed with her even these many years later. Another nurse entered the room pushing a machine which Carole knew could be used as a substitute for an iron lung should Kurt go into respiratory arrest before they could get the iron lung going again. She gave the young nurse a smile and introduced herself as Kurt's stepmother.

"Alright, let's do this." Dr. Carmichael stated, moving with the young nurse towards the head of Kurt's iron lung.

"Are you ready Kurt?" Kurt blinked once and as the respirator filled his lungs Dr. Carmichael and Nurse Miller released the clamps on either side of the machine before turning the pump off. Slowly they rolled the cot Kurt lay on from the machine. Carole began working quickly, lifting Kurt's legs and placing rolled up towels under his knees and small pillows under his ankles. She wiped mercurochrome over the raw spots on his heels and the backs of his knees and placed gauze loosely over the wounds. She worked quickly and deliberately, working with Nurse Miller to clean Kurt's paralyzed body and change his clothes and the linens which surrounded him for warmth and padding. It took everything she had to keep working despite Kurt's increasingly ragged breathing. It had been a little more than five minutes and Kurt was already visibly struggling. Carole kept her mind on her work trying to keep down the sobs she felt rising in her throat at the sound of Kurt's labored breathing. She took his hand is her's and squeezed it. His fingers were stiff and curled slightly from the muscle spasms that had racked his body. She looked at his thin hands and noticed he was developing the distinctive 'polio thumb' on one side. She felt a slight movement of Kurt's fingers and smiled down at her stepson.

"Can you try to cough for me Kurt?" Dr. Carmichael asked, and Carole went back to her work as she watched Kurt struggle to comply. But the muscles just weren't there to create any kind of real productive cough. That was dangerous she knew. It meant he wouldn't be able to clear any infection from his airways, it would just sit there. It made pneumonia a real possibility, and one he might not be able to fight. It also meant his lungs were probably already struggling with the normal everyday secretions which kept the airways functional, most people could cough it up and keep it moving. If Kurt couldn't... She shook herself trying not to fall into despair. Whatever happened, they would make do. They always had. Kurt was strong she told herself, he would keep fighting. She looked down at the boy who at that moment didn't seem to have a whole lot of strength left to fight.

"You are doing so well darling." She squeezed his hand again. That seemed to calm him and his shallow breathing grew a little steadier. She helped Nurse Miller remove his t-shirt, which hadn't been changed in far too long. The movement made it harder for Kurt to breath, but he managed to stay calm even though every part of his body was screaming in fight or flight. He wasn't getting enough air, he knew he wasn't, but he also knew that he had to keep trying, had to keep working the weak muscles in his chest as hard as he could.

"You're doing well Kurt, I know it's hard, just keep breathing. Don't try to focus on using the same muscles that you used to, just breath with whatever you've got." Kurt tried this, trying to use his slightly stronger stomach muscles instead of his weak chest muscles to expand his lungs.

"Good, good. Keep using those stomach muscles." Kurt kept working his weak muscles as hard as he could. He began counting the seconds, trying to push himself just one second more, one breath more. It was working, he could feel that he was getting a little more air and that made him calmer, which in turn made every struggling breath a little easier. He felt Dr. Carmichael's hands on either side of his chest and watched as his doctor studied his breathing pattern. He felt himself turn slightly and turned his head to see Carole working behind him. He felt the sting of her cleaning a pressure sore on his back. It had become a familiar feeling over the last few days as his skin continued to break down from lack of movement. As he grew more tired he felt his breath growing more shallow and the crushing feeling in his chest began again. Carole began moving him onto his side to change his shirt and the linens under his back. As he was moved he felt his breath hitch and he was just too tired to take another breath, as he waited to be returned to his back Kurt began to feel like he was drowning. Fear started to overtake him and he started clicking his tongue trying to alert Dr. Carmichael as his vision began to go. Blackness had nearly overtaken him, and he felt his eyes close. The world seemed to be moving slowly, the sounds around him had become distorted. Faintly, as though surrounded by heavy cotton batting he heard Dr. Carmichael's voice calling for the nurse to help restart the machine. Soon the whooshing of the respirator started up again and Kurt's breathing evened out enough for him to open his eyes and take in the world outside his own body. Once he got past the frantic feeling of not being able to breath he actually felt better. It was wonderful to feel cleaner, he still hadn't been fully bathed but just having clean clothes on made him feel a bit less awful.

During the examination Kurt had caught a partial glimpse at his new body, and it made his circumstances feel more desperate than ever. He had begun to feel disconnected from his body. He couldn't see it, and save for a few fingers he couldn't move at all. It was easier to pretend that none of this was happening to his body when he couldn't see anything his nurses were doing to him. The inches of metal between his mind and the rest of his body made it easier to pretend than to accept his new reality. Now he had seen what had been hiding behind his metal prison, and he had no choice but to face it. He had lost weight quickly, his once muscular arms looked like sticks, barely filling out the sleeves of his white t-shirt. It had been what, two weeks? And already he looked like a different person. His knees had drawn up slightly, taut muscles on either side frozen in something ironically reminiscent of a runner's stance. His knees were now supported by a cylindrical bolster of rolled up towels which kept some pressure off his aching back and would stop the skin on the backs of his legs from breaking down. In fact, his whole body was supported by various pillows and towels. It made him feel like a marionette with the strings cut, tucked up away in a box. As he relaxed once again into the rhythm of the machine an anger born of shame began to grow in his chest. He would have turned into himself and not come out for several hours but Dr. Carmichael's voice drew him back to what was at hand.

Dr. Carmichael had pulled up a chair and sat so that he was easily within Kurt's field of vision, unlike most of the other doctors he communicated his findings directly to Kurt.

"So the good news is that you kept that up for over fifteen minutes. That's a real start, I mean it. Also, there is movement in both your intercostals and your diaphragm, which will make your breathing more coordinated as you recover, there's a lot we can work with. But they're still very weak and you're definitely still dealing with full paralysis of some of the respiratory muscles. One big problem is that you don't seem to have retained much of a cough reflex. That means we'll need to start chest physical therapy as soon as possible to keep your airways clear. Otherwise there's a real risk of pneumonia." Kurt watched Carole as Dr. Carmichael relayed this information. She looked scared, and worn out, just how he felt.

"What will that involve doctor? Will it increase his chances of recovery?" she asked concernedly.

"In a roundabout sort of way, yes. It is still somewhat experimental with polio patients, but its well regarded in the treatment of respiratory illness. It helps stave off infections which would seriously slow down his recovery and can be life threatening. I like to call it a quad cough because it helps quadriplegic patients keep their airways clear even when the respiratory or abdominal muscles are paralyzed. But no, ultimately it just keeps his airways clear, it doesn't help him learn to breath on his own again." Carole nodded slowly,

"Thank you doctor. If you're through, I think Kurt needs his rest." Dr. Carmichael nodded, leading Nurse Miller from the room. Carole followed after making sure Kurt was comfortable.

"I'll see you in the morning dear, you've got a big day so try to get some sleep." he blinked once, but didn't really think he would manage much sleep that night. His days and nights had become discombobulated. He slept for hours during the days, then struggled to sleep through the night even though he was no longer woken by a nurse with quite such annoying frequency. The days were fast becoming a constant stream of nurses, doctors, tests, and therapists. At night a nurse checked on him every few hours but for long stretches he was left alone with his thoughts. Sometimes he managed to sleep, exhausted by the day and still not even close to recovering his energy from the fever. Other nights the pain kept him up, other nights it was his thoughts which wouldn't allow him to find rest. Nights were when he allowed himself to consider the possibility that he would stay like this forever. Most of the day he managed to put a brave face on for his doctors and his stepmother. He managed to suppress his anger as well, but late at night his emotions would take over. He would cry himself to sleep some nights. Other times he would let out grunts, the closest he could get to screams of frustration. And sometimes he would lie awake in silence, staring at the reflection in the mirror above him, unable to sleep, counting the hours until morning. That night he just kept repeating mantras to himself to keep from falling deep into himself. _Next time I'll manage a half hour, then an hour._ He promised himself. _I'll get better. I have to._ And, _tomorrow will be better. Tomorrow I'll be out of here. Tomorrow I'll start getting better._ Eventually he did fall asleep, but it was fitful. He dreamt of his brother.

He dreamed that he walked out onto the back porch to see Finn wearing his uniform, crisp and clean like the first time he put it on two years ago. Kurt called to him, running down the stairs. But when he turned around, everything went wrong. His face was dessicated. The front of his uniform was slashed open and his guts were spilling out. He looked down as though surprised and took his intestines in his hands. Kurt tried to run, but couldn't. His body wouldn't cooperate so he fell what felt like miles into darkness. Then the world would turn and change. He would dream he was lying in a field with Blaine as airplanes straifed them. Or that they were dancing a strange dance where he couldn't move no matter how hard he tried. Or that they were lying in bed together only to realize that no matter how hard he tried to reach out his arm he could never touch his lover sleeping beside him. Sometimes he awoke with a start from these nightmares. Other times it was a nurse performing her nightly rounds who woke him. And sometimes, like tonight, he would drift slowly into consciousness and lie awake for hours in somber silence until either he fell asleep again or dawn came.

 **Somewhere in the South Pacific, August 30, 1944**

"How's that kid brother of your's doing?" The voice came from above him and Finn rolled over in his fox hole. He had just about managed to get comfortable despite the heat and the mosquitos filling the heavy night air, so the voice was not entirely welcome.

"Sorry to ask, just I saw you got mail earlier." Finn slid over in the sand to make room and Corporal Tommy "Boots" Bartlett climbed in next to him, offering his mug of coffee. Nineteen year old Tommy had lost both his boots on his first landing to a patch of quicksand earning him the nickname Boots. Finn accepted Bartlett's mug and took a swig of bitter K-ration coffee before answering.

"They're moving him out of isolation soon so I guess that means he's getting better. But he's still paralyzed. That hasn't gotten any better. My stepdad's acting all optimistic. But I just don't know how to be. I mean he'll probably be crippled, there's no two ways about it." Boots nodded slowly.

"That's a real shit stick Old Man." Tommy had only just been made an NCO, but could swear like an old sailor, and like most of the younger guys who had been replacements after Guadalcanal called Finn "Old Man" because he had been with the unit since 1942. This in spite of the fact that at 22 he wasn't even a year older than many of them. The two sat in silence, looking up at the deep blue sky through the palm trees and brush. Bright stars twinkled through the palm fronds.

"They're moving us tomorrow you know? Looks like we'll be done for a while." Tommy said as he settled himself next to Finn, both of them looking forward to sleeping in a real bunk the next night.

"Not me. They're making me move to the 218th to replace one of their NCOs. The artillery division. After I told the captain about my brother too. Its fucked up. Hell, I don't know shit about artillery." Finn replied with a grunt of dark laughter. He took a swig from the flask he kept in his hip pocket before offering it to the younger man.

"Yeah it is. You've been in longer than most of us, you should have enough points to go home." He offered Finn a cigarette in exchange for the flask. He took it gratefully, lighting it and shooing the mosquitoes with the tobacco smoke. The two men leaned back, blowing smoke into the heavy night air.

"This place could be real beautiful, ya know?" Bartlett breathed.

"Yeah it could." Finn agreed looking out at the island. New Georgia could have been beautiful, had been beautiful, until the beaches became cluttered with shrapnel and wreckage and inland became drenched in blood.

"Do you think you'll ever come back?" Finn shook his head,

"Nah, not here, if I need heat I'll go to California. Too many memories here."

"Too many ghosts." Bartlett agreed.

"Yeah... Too many ghosts." Finn muttered taking another swig from his flask. The warm liquid burned on its way down but was still somehow cooling and refreshing in the near overpowering heat. He started thinking of Kurt, wondering what it would be like to see him as he was now. What would he look like? He had never seen someone in an iron lung except on posters or in newsreels. They were usually small children, not young men in their prime like Kurt had been. He didn't have any reference point for how his stepbrother would look now. How he would act. It felt somewhat like he would be meeting a whole new person once he returned home- if he returned home. Eventually he drifted off in the sand, warm from the jungle air, dreaming of home.


	7. August 31, 1944 Morning

Kurt was woken around six the next morning by Nurse Miller, one of the younger nurses, with orange juice and cream of wheat. _Coffee. I want coffee._ Kurt thought. _And some real goddamn food._ He hated being up this early, especially because he hadn't slept well the night before. His back still ached nearly constantly and the slow healing bed sores burned and itched making it extremely difficult to sleep. _God I really wanted a cup of coffee_ , he thought. The food brought by by his nurses was invariably bland and childlike, and now that Kurt was feeling better he was quickly becoming bored of it. It was a good sign he supposed, but that didn't make the food any more interesting or palatable. When Nurse Miller turned towards him to feed him another bite of the cream of wheat he mouthed to her _COFFEE_.

"You want coffee eh?" she giggled. "I'll bring you some once you're on the ward, how 'bout that." He gave her a smile and a mouthed thanks and took the bite she had offered.

"When you're done with breakfast we're gonna start moving you to your new room, how does that sound?" Kurt smiled.

"Good! Now it looks like you'll have your own room for a while, that should be nice, more privacy." Kurt didn't particularly know how to feel about that. He was growing somewhat lonely, seeing only nurses and family, but he also didn't particularly relish the thought of being stuck on a children's ward. Because most victims of polio were children, the largest polio ward in Ohio was at Akron Children's Hospital where Kurt was among the older patients. The hospital had a general ward for polio patients who were young adults, but adult respiratory patients were generally in their own rooms. Not only did it sound profoundly boring to primarily interact with eight year olds, it seemed unfathomably depressing to spend his days watching small children struggle with the crippling and painful lasting effects of a microscopic virus he had come to hate with a passion. It was bad enough to experience it himself, it seemed awfully cruel that the virus mostly struck children. He'd had a chance at a childhood, and at a good education, but children who were crippled had no access to any of that. The world wasn't built for men like him, any more than it was built for the poor children who filled the polio wards. There were many people that this world wasn't built for, Kurt thought.

The nurse offered another spoonful and he took it, wanting desperately to be able to talk. To ask for something different to eat, or a book to read, just to be able to tell the nurse that he really needed the toilet right about now. _Fuck_ he thought, _fuck everything._

Within the hour, not long after Nurse Miller had finished giving him his breakfast, a team of nurses and orderlies came in to begin the long process of moving him out of isolation and into a room on the respiratory ward. A machine was rolled in, but Kurt couldn't really see what it was except that it had long rubber tubes attached to a mask which was placed on a cart beside his head. It was the same machine that had kept him breathing during Dr. Gowen's examination after his lungs had failed him. The group didn't really talk to him except to tell him to stay calm as he was taken out of iron lung to be washed and have all his virus contaminated clothes removed to be burned. It felt nice to be really washed and dried all over, but where the iron lung did its best to mimic normal breathing, the portable respirator did little but shove air down his throat. It was uncomfortable, even painful. He looked up at the young man working the machine and realized it was the same medical student who had kept him breathing during his second spinal tap. He had a funny name Kurt thought, trying to remember. From a book maybe? Yes Dr. Gowen had called him Watson. _In a few years he'll be Dr. Watson_ , Kurt thought, smiling to himself. _Maybe he's got some holmesian lover back home._ Kurt smirked under the mask, thinking of the man going home to an old Brit smoking a pipe in a victorian sitting room. He tried to make up funny backstories for each of the nurses as they moved him around , making his muscles ache almost unbearably as they scrubbed away weeks of filth and dead skin. He had had a several quick wipe downs since he was hospitalized, as well as a hair wash but not a full sponge bath. It hurt horribly to have his limbs lifted and moved, but it also felt good. He tried to take his mind off the pain of it, imagining strange and funny stories about each nurse in turn.

 _I'll bet she gets the paper with her curlers in_ he thought looking towards Nurse Miller. _And I'll bet she's gets that red lipstick on her teeth,_ looking towards a blond young woman with lipstick which did not match her skin tone. _Girl, get me out of here and we can go fix that color,_ he thought, while simultaneously wondering what his increasing proclivity for imaginary conversations said about his mental status. _Just what I need to be_ he thought, nearly rolling his eyes, _crazy as well as crippled._

"You doing okay?" Mr. Watson asked, bringing Kurt back out of himself.

 _No,_ Kurt thought, _I feel like crap, I'm exhausted, I hurt, and now my throat hurts from you shoving air down my throat._ But he just blinked once. He knew Watson wasn't really talking about how he felt, just asking whether he was about to faint from lack of oxygen. Which he wasn't, so by that measure, Kurt supposed, he was okay.

Soon enough the sponge bath was done and Kurt was transferred to a stretcher. By that point he was so exhausted that he barely took in his surroundings as he was changed into a clean t-shirt and striped hospital issue pajama bottoms. His hips hurt, his legs hurt, his back ached. Even his lungs ached, partially from the harsher breaths caused by the portable respirator, and partially because his lungs were beginning to feel the strain from not being able to cough. His chest felt tight, like he was coming down with a cold. In fact, it was the feeling of the buildup of fluid which Dr. Carmichael had discussed. Kurt managed to perk himself up a bit as he was wheeled down the hall and into an elevator. He had never been in an elevator before and the feeling was unlike anything he had felt before. Almost as though his stomach had left his body, but it was strange more than unpleasant. He almost hoped he would get to ride in it again, a childish ray of excitement passed over him. There hadn't been many moments of joy since he got sick.

Feeling happy simultaneously felt impossible and as though he was betraying himself by not allowing himself to be happy and just get on with life. It wasn't entirely unlike how he had felt after his mother died. His father had encouraged him to get on with life, even when it felt as though any kind of life without his mother was impossible. Perhaps it wasn't so different, he thought. He had lost something. Even if he recovered completely, which became less likely with every day which passed, he would be changed forever. He had only been acquainted with the land of paralysis for a few weeks but he knew that it had changed him. He had had to deal with being completely dependent on others for everything, including being able to breathe. That soul crushing dependance was something he didn't yet know how to grapple with.

He had been on the precipice of independence. Saving up enough money to move away from small town life with its small minds to New York, where he could be whoever, and whatever he wanted to be. Where there were streets where it was rumored men could hold hands in public. There were rumors to of bars and clubs where you could dance and kiss like everyone else. Now he couldn't sit up let alone dance. Since Blaine had been drafted the hope of a future together in New York City had been his comfort. He occasionally wrote Blaine letters under the name "Karen" detailing his hopes for their life together. He had given the return address for his friend Sara who had often covered for him and Blaine during high school in exchange for Kurt taking her to school dances. Sara had little to no interest in dating someone who wanted any kind of physical affection, so Kurt was in many ways her ideal man. Someone who would discuss the most recent Steinbeck novel and go to the shops downtown, but who didn't expect petting sessions in return. In high school they had been best friends, and once Blaine left for the army they spent nearly all their free time together.

Because Sara knew his and Blaine's real relationship he had felt free with her, more able to be himself. When they were alone he didn't have to constantly suppress the more flamboyant aspects of his personality and when they were in public, the fact that he was out with a girl helped ward off at least some of the comments surrounding his sexuality. He hoped that now that he was out of isolation she would be able to visit. Only she and his step-brother Finn were aware of his and Blaine's relationship, and that hadn't been by their choosing. Finn had walked in on them once and had been sworn to secrecy. It was the kind of secret many families had. Brothers who left for San Francisco or Chicago or New York and never wrote again after being disowned by their families and threatened with electroshock treatment. Men and women who knew they could never love each other but married out of friendship, or for want of a family, or just to throw off suspicion. Or else men and women who lived in loveless marriages, their spouses always wondering why they weren't ever good enough. "Bachelor" uncles and "spinster" aunts who lived with "friends" sometimes for decades. Sometimes with the whispers and rumors following them, sometimes managing to avoid suspicion by always seeming to be dating a different girl.

That was who Kurt had hoped he and Blaine could be, "bachelors" who lived together as best friends. With only those closest ever knowing there was so much more than friendship between them. Now that future was called into question. Perhaps it would be easier, with people seeing him as a cripple, something most saw as sad and distinctly unsexual, Blaine would simply be seen as a kindly man who cared for a crippled friend. But perhaps Blaine wouldn't want to have to be with someone he had to spend his life caring for. There was no place for a wheelchair or a respirator in New York nightlife after all. Kurt wasn't even sure he could sleep with his lover anymore. It was just all a fucking mess. It all made him feel even more trapped than he already did.

And it wasn't just feeling trapped in his own body either. It was feeling as though his one way out of had been stolen. There was no way he could travel to Manhattan in an iron lung. What West Village apartment was equipped with a generator for an iron lung or space enough for a wheelchair? The thought of Blaine having to care for him as he was now turned his stomach. Whatever the opposite of sexy was, that was how he felt now. The thought of the man he had lost his virginity to having to turn him in bed, was more than he could bear. Kurt stared at the slowly moving hallway ceiling above him blinking back tears. He missed his lover with an intensity of pain he couldn't begin to describe. As much as he felt embarrassed and ashamed of his body he wanted Blaine by his side. He wanted Blaine to kiss him and tell him everything would be alright, even if it wasn't true.

He had met Blaine in tenth grade, when Blaine had moved to Lima Senior High School after his father passed away and he had had to leave his private school to help his family save money. The two had become fast friends, bonding over the loss of a parent and over a feeling they didn't yet know how to name. The names _queer, fairy,_ and _fag,_ had always followed Kurt, but he suspected that Blaine might have avoided them if they hadn't been so inseparable.

They had known each other for nearly a year before they had first kissed. It had been perfect and terrifying and exhilarating all at once. They had been together ever since, each other's first and only lovers. It nearly made Kurt's stomach turn to imagine Blaine seeing him like this. Splayed out on a stretcher, arms and legs limp, breathing through a bag and pissing through a tube. It all felt like a violation of his body. The virus had been a violation, an invader. Changing his body in ways he could not predict or control. It wasn't just the thought of Blaine seeing him paralyzed which upset him. It was the thought of him seeing him vulnerable in a way which he couldn't control. They were intimate and vulnerable with each other, but it had always been on their terms. This all became mixed up with feelings of shame at the entire hospital seeing him wheeled through the hallways in his pyjamas and only covered with a thin sheet. He felt as though he were on display. Up until his illness he had always felt proud of how he could in a way choose how people saw him. It had become a defense mechanism, if he felt pride in how he presented himself he couldn't be ashamed of it even when others wanted him to. Now he had no control over what he wore, what he ate, or nearly anything else. He didn't even have a say as to when and how his body was stripped and put on display for the benefit of his doctors and nurses. It didn't matter that they treated him well and were only there to help him, what mattered was that he didn't have any say it how any of it happened.

Soon Kurt felt the stretcher come to a stop, he turned his head as much as he could and saw one of the attending nurses open a white door with a circular window cut into it. The door had a tin plate marking it as Room 305. The door had been labeled with his name, and had something which looked like a schedule pinned under the label. As he was wheeled in he heard whooping from behind his head where he couldn't see. It sounded like Carole and his father. It made him smile, despite himself. He knew they wanted to make him happy, to make him feel like he was getting better and that this could be some kind of normal. He wanted to be happy in order to please them, but he wasn't sure he could manage it.

Though he couldn't move much because of the mask over his face, he managed to look around the room a bit. It was prettier, certainly more inviting than his room on the isolation ward. He had been too sick to care about his surroundings during the majority of his time in isolation, but once he began to feel better, the sickly green walls and tiny window had felt quite depressing. His new room was much more inviting. There was a large window on one wall which looked out onto the hospital grounds and the tree lined street below. The window had cheerful white cotton drapes, and the walls were painted an equally cheerful shade of pale blue. The room was more fully furnished than the isolation ward as well. Besides the new iron lung, there was a small dresser and set of shelves, a sink on one wall, two carts stacked with various medical supplies, a hard backed chair, and an armchair for visitors. Kurt smiled further when he realized his father and step mother had brought some of his things from home. There was his mother's vase, with flowers on the dresser, the radio from downstairs, and several books from his room and a few other bits and bobs to make the room feel more homey. It did make him feel less lonely, knowing that his surroundings would be at least a bit familiar. In a moment his father was above him, squeezing his hand just as Kurt began to be lifted from the stretcher and into the iron lung. Within a few moments the machine was on and he was breathing more comfortably. While Carole left to talk with Kurt's doctors, his father pulled the chair beside Kurt so they could see each other.

"Guess this is a start, huh?" his father sighed,

 _Yeah,_ Kurt thought, _though of what I don't know._


	8. August 31, Afternoon

**Chapter 8: Afternoon August 31, 1944**

The next few hours were hard. The move had exhausted him, and though he wanted to sleep, he didn't want to miss this time with his father. Because of gas rationing, his father had to rely on trains or buses to visit his wife and son. Fairs were expensive, and adding the travel costs to the wages he had lost during Kurt's initial illness meant he couldn't make the journey often. He tried to stay awake, but it proved impossible, he was just too tired. His father was talking to him softly and he tried to focus on what his father was saying but it was no use, and soon he was asleep.

It took a few moments for Burt to notice that his son had drifted off. When he finally did, he cut himself off mid-sentence and looked over at his wife.

"He's exhausted" she whispered, "those portable respirators are really hard on the lungs, and he's had a rough morning." She stood, coming up behind Burt and putting her arms around his shoulders.

"Come, we'll go get something to eat and come back once he wakes up. They'll probably have him scheduled with a few teams of doctors this afternoon so he needs his rest. Respiratory therapy is coming by at four too, that will be hard on him I'm afraid." Burt nodded again, still in silence, he kissed her cheek and stood, taking his hat and jacket from the back of the chair.

"He looks so peaceful, if it weren't for the iron lung he wouldn't look much different sleeping." He whispered, "he's too pale, and he's gotten downright gaunt, but not much different, not really." Carole nodded.

"He'll look more like himself in time. We just have to get a bit of weight back on him." Burt shook his head sadly,

"He may get back to looking like before, but he's never gonna be like he was, no matter how much better he gets. This is gonna change him. And if he doesn't get better..." he trailed off. It was too awful a prospect to voice, even if it were a distinct possibility. He just couldn't imagine bringing his son home in a wheelchair. He pushed Kurt's hair to the side of his forehead, watching his face move in sleep.

"See you in bit, Kurt, I'll be a breath away." He felt his throat close with emotion and stood, composing himself as he followed his wife from the room.

Later that afternoon, after another brief visit from his father and another examination by his doctors, Kurt was introduced to the respiratory therapist, Miss Phillips. She was an older woman with curly, slightly graying hair pinned under her nurse's cap. She had smiley eyes but a voice that was all business. She stood behind Kurt's head so that he could see her, and addressed him with hands on her hips.

"We're going to work on speaking, alright?" Kurt blinked his eyes once for yes.

"I'll take that as a yes, though if I do my job right you won't have to do that much longer." Kurt gave a half smile. He didn't know how much longer he could stand not talking without losing his mind. He had gotten to the point where he sometimes felt as though the need to speak was physically bursting out of him. Miss Phillips checked the machine's settings before returning to her place behind Kurt's head.

"Are you breathing comfortably? Not too fast or too slow?" Kurt blinked in agreement and Miss Phillips smiled down at him, sitting next to him with a look of determination and positivity. Just about the opposite of how Kurt felt.

"Now," she stated in a businesslike voice, her hands clasped in her lap. "Let's get started. Remember, you can only speak on exhalation, and since the respirator controls both inhalation and exhalation so you may sometimes be cut off in the middle of a sentence. The next time you feel yourself exhale I want you to try and make some sound. You'll want to focus on these muscles right here." she indicated on his throat. "Does that make sense?" He blinked again, agreeing to try. As he felt the breath start to leave his lungs he focused on working his vocal cords- no easy task after weeks of near total silence- and produced a breathless croak which made him cringe internally. The therapist smiled encouragingly at him. He didn't feel very encouraged, but he wasn't about to give up either. Not being able to speak was in some ways the worst part of his illness. It made him feel completely out of control. Kurt had been a talkative child, and he had always been one to speak up for himself. Even when it got him in trouble. His voice was his strength, and not just for his art, but for his self confidence as well. Getting that means of control back was his first priority, even if he hated sounding so unlike himself.

"That's good, that's a very good start. Now, on your next breath try and say the word 'book'." As he felt himself exhale he tried again, this time focusing on remembering how to coordinate his vocal cords to actually form a word. Hesitantly, he formed his lips into the simple word, and as he exhaled a sound came out. It was hoarse and weak, but clear, _book_ , his first word in an iron lung.

It didn't sound like his voice, Kurt thought, it sounded sick and weak. It sounded frail. It was the only word for it, he sounded sick, and weak, and broken down. Nothing like the strong, high, clear voice he had cultivated on stage and during choir practice. Kurt had always been proud of his voice. Even though his high pitched voice often drew mockery, it also made him stand out in choir and in the theatre. It was unique. His voice and his musical talent had often given him opportunities to express parts of himself he was usually told to keep hidden. It had felt like his ticket out of Ohio as well. Realizing that such an important part of himself had been so changed, so weakened by his illness, felt like a punch in the stomach.

"That is really good Kurt. I know your voice sounds funny to you now, but as you get more comfortable, and as you get stronger I promise you'll start to sound more like yourself. Most of it's just because your throat is a little dry." Miss Phillips said comfortingly. Kurt realized that he must have looked rather horrified at the sound of his own voice.

"Let's get you some water and try again. You'll sound better I promise." she smiled slightly,

"Okay" Kurt croaked. The nurse stood and went to the chest of drawers where a jug of water and a glass sat. She looked at the portrait of him and his mother and smiled,

"Is this your mom? She's very pretty." Kurt stared hard at the ceiling. A decade on and he still wasn't comfortable when people talked about his mother.

"Yes-she was." he muttered. Then went on to explain with his long rehearsed 'dead mother story'. "She died- I was- eight." then added somewhat angrily.

"At least she- didn't- see me- like this." Nurse Phillips didn't respond. She had seen dozens of young men in Kurt's situation and she had grown used to the anger which came during their first weeks of paralysis. Small children were adaptable, as horrific as it was when they were confined to an iron lung, they often adapted quickly and found ways to be happy. It was the older children and adults who faced the hardest transitions. This boy's anger and self hatred wasn't anything she hadn't seen before. He would work it out in time, in a way it was a grieving process.

Over the next half hour or so with Miss Phillips he became more comfortable speaking. He could only manage a few words on each breath, but his voice was sounding better and he did manage to ask a few pressing questions.

"When can I- go home?" As soon as he said it he realized this was a silly question, he couldn't move. He couldn't breath on his own. There was no way in hell he could go home. The therapist smiled sadly, seeing from Kurt's face that he had realized just how far from returning home he really was.

"Let's start by getting you out of the respirator." She said encouragingly. This was true, Kurt knew, but part of him still felt deflated. He knew in his heart that his recovery would be long, and he knew from newsreel footage and street corner posters that it was unlikely to be complete. Slowly he asked another, more pressing question,

"How do-I- do that?" This time the Nurse Phillips gave him a soft smile,

"We will help you. Most of the time you still have muscles that aren't fully paralyzed, just severely weakened. You have to relearn to use the muscles which help you breath. It takes time, practice, exercise. Some of it's just waiting, giving your nerves a chance to recover. Part of it is learning to compensate for muscles that don't work as well. When your breathing improves you'll move to our general ward or to a rehabilitation hospital. That's when you'll really be on your way home." Kurt was grateful that she had said 'when,' even though part of him suspected she meant 'if.' It gave him a grain more hope, and he needed all the hope he could possibly get.

"How long- will it- take to get- out of the- respirator? He hated the clipped way he had to speak, it almost made him not want to talk at all but he had to know.

"I won't lie to you" Nurse Phillips began softly, "it will probably be just about the hardest thing you'll ever have to do. And it may take a long time, maybe months, but I'll be with you through all of it, and so will the pulmonology doctors and all the other respiratory therapists, it will be a lot of long hard work, but you will get through it, that I can promise." He didn't really want to ask his next question, but he had to know his chances,

"I've seen- people in- newsreels who-never get out-" he rested for a moment, worn out by the effort of talking. She didn't interrupt him, which he was glad of, she just waited patiently for him to be ready to continue. "Who never- get out of - the respirator. They spend their- whole lives paralyzed- trapped." She nodded slowly,

"There are patients who don't recover, even when they work very hard. But every minute you put into your therapy will make that less likely. What I can say is that even if your recovery doesn't go how we all hope, even if the worst happens and you don't regain the ability to breath on your own, you will find other ways to be happy. And every day we will work together to make it less and less likely that you will have to face that. I promise." Kurt closed his eyes, from exhaustion, but also because it was the only way he could block everything out. He felt tears in his eyes, but choked out one last question.

"Am I going to-walk again?" Miss Phillips averted her eyes slightly, and that was all he needed to know. He wanted to be brave and fight, but right now, he just wanted to sleep. He felt a handkerchief dabbing lightly at his face to stop the tears running down over his cheeks and into his ears. Nurse Phillips voice was soft and kind as she spoke to him,

"There's really no way of knowing, not at this stage. But you'll need to learn to make peace whichever way it goes. And even if you do, it's probably not gonna be the same as before. Most of our patients don't get back to 100%, some get close, but polio's a real crapshoot sometimes. This isn't to discourage you, I just want you to know that walking isn't everything. You'll learn that real quick here." Her gentle words drew him away from tears. It made him angry to think about a life without walking. Angry, and scared. It was beyond belief, he thought. It shouldn't be possible. He thought back to the day he got sick. It was a blur, he'd been too feverish during much of it to be aware of what was happening. He thought back, trying to pinpoint the last steps he had taken. A memory passed behind his eyes, it was strange like the memory of a dream because his mind at the time had been so ravaged by fever.

An image of his father standing in front of him with tears in his eyes came to the front of his memory. They were standing in his bedroom and his legs were burning and shaking. He could remember vaguely taking a step towards his bed, then another and having his legs go out from under him. He realized with embarrassment that after that his father had helped him into the bed and helped him out of his work clothes and into pajamas. No one had helped him dress since he was a toddler, at least not until now. He screwed up is face with pain, the memory almost overwhelming. He wanted to scream, anger at his useless body washing over him.

"I know you're still getting used to all this. Everything you're feeling- all that anger- it's normal. But that doesn't mean you don't have to find some way to move past it. You'll never get well if you put all your energy to anger and resentment that I can tell you for sure." Kurt pursed his lips. It wasn't that easy to let go of that anger. He didn't have any way to let the anger out. Normally he would sing, or run, and he could do neither of those things.

"Fuck." he breathed. "Fuck it- all." He had expected a reprimand for swearing, perhaps trying to antagonize the nurse, but she didn't seem phased.

"Well at least you're doing more than answering questions now, manners will come back later." she chuckled. Kurt grit his teeth, angry and exhausted,

"I think- I'll try to- sleep now." he murmured, closing his eyes in hopes that it would make sleep come. He heard Miss Phillips stand to leave the room, as she left the light clicked off and he was surrounded only by the pale light coming through the window.

Kurt eventually did fall asleep, and slept on and off most of that afternoon, still recovering his strength which had been so drained by the fever, and further depleted by the ordeal of being moved from isolation. He woke around four to be fed cream of wheat and eggs, some of the only things he could manage yet. He was working on attempting to swallow some soft scrambled egg when his father arrived. His appetite has returned with a vengeance but the muscles that controlled his throat had been weakened making it difficult to swallow anything but liquids and soft foods. Swallowing grew easier every day but it was still difficult, especially since he was lying on his back. Burt indicated the nurse could leave him with the plate.

"Kurt worked with the respiratory therapist today, he was able to talk on his own a little." the nurse said, smiling as she moved the tray of food over to a chair beside the iron lung so Burt could keep feeding his son.

His father was so pleased that Kurt could speak again that he nearly hugged the nurse who'd just told him. When Kurt croaked out a breathless,

"Hi dad," his father's face broke out into a broad smile, but there were tears in his eyes. Even weak and tired, his son's voice was the most amazing thing he had ever heard. It meant he was getting his son back.

"Hi kiddo, how are you doing? I've missed your voice." He answered, stroking Kurt's hair softly.

"I'm okay- I've- missed talking." Burt leaned down and kissed Kurt on the forehead

"Don't cry- dad- I'm gonna be- okay- I'm feeling stronger." Kurt didn't feel very confident in that statement but he hated to see his father upset.

"We're gonna beat this Kurt." Kurt tried to act confident and hopeful.

"I'm trying- Dad- I'm going to- to get out- of here. I'm already- moving- my fingers a little." Burt smiled.

"I know, Carole told me. She said you were breathing on your own the other day for a little while too. It feels like baby steps now, I know that, but you'll get there." Kurt smiled wanly, secretly thinking that there weren't a lot of steps going on for him, baby or otherwise. Though he couldn't admit it, he was losing confidence that he would fully recover. It was something he felt deep inside himself that he didn't yet know how to grapple with. He knew his own body, and something told him that at least his legs had been too badly damaged by the virus to really recover. Kurt was brought back to himself by his father's voice.

"You really scared me Kurt, I was so scared you wouldn't make it." He was surprised to realize that there were tears in his father's eyes.

"I couldn't live if I'd lost you Kurt" now there were tears in Kurt's eyes as well.

"I was- scared-to- dad." Burt leaned down and kissed his son's forehead silently.

They talked for a while longer, but there wasn't much to say and soon Kurt was tired out again. About an hour later his father left for the night, giving Kurt a kiss on his forehead.

That first night in the respiratory ward Kurt lay awake much of the night. Though he was exhausted, he couldn't manage to fall asleep. What little sleep he did manage to get was interrupted every few hours by what felt like a constant stream of nurses and orderlies. Because of the pressure sores that had developed while he was in isolation he had to be turned every two hours. This was a long and unwieldy procedure because the machine had to be opened and the collar keeping the machine airtight around his neck had to be repositioned before he could even be moved. It took at least fifteen minutes and had to be done every two or three hours day and night. It was more annoying than anything else, especially on nights when he did manage to fall asleep as it invariably woke him up and made any rest difficult. The nurses insisted that he would eventually learn to ignore them and sleep through it. Kurt was fairly skeptical of this. He suspected that the nurses had been duped into believing that their patients stayed asleep when in fact they simply tried to pretend they hadn't awoken in the hope of falling asleep again sooner. It was a tactic Kurt had already begun using. If he could stay as close to sleep as possible he at least had a bit of hope that he would fall asleep again before the nurses or orderlies came again. It was during those hours in the middle of the night that he felt most vulnerable and scared.

He had always been a bit of a night owl, often using the late night hours to write or draw, to sew, or just to sort through the events of the day. Unable to keep his body active, he was at least more able to keep his mind active now since his father and step-mother made sure his room was well stocked with books, magazines, and newspapers, along with the radio, which was quickly becoming his prized possession. He had become a bit of a news junky since Finn and then Blaine had left and it had only become more pronounced since he had been hospitalized. It was really his only access to the outside world so he asked his nurses to keep it on most of the day. But at night that wasn't an option, so he just had to sit with his thoughts, and his fears, for hours on end praying for sleep.


	9. September 6, 1944

**September 6, 1944**

Slowly, parts of Kurt's body started to return.

First the muscles of his throat grew stronger, making it easier to talk and swallow. Then his bladder came back, and to his great relief the catheter came out. It was replaced by a urinal brought by a nurse every few hours, not really all that much better in Kurt's opinion. But that couldn't really be helped, and it was better than the alternative. Then a few more of his fingers returned, enough that he could almost curl his right hand. He could lift his wrist too, though only for a few seconds.

This gave him a sense of accomplishment, no matter how small. Those movements weren't exactly useful, but they made a difference all the same. If nothing else it made him feel as though he were getting better. It gave him hope that one day it would all be over, he would get better and go home. Those small improvements allowed him to survive those long and lonely nights and pain filled days that chipped away at what little hope he managed to capture.

It didn't help that his left arm remained stubbornly motionless, and his legs showed no signs of recovery. He couldn't even use his abdominal muscles, which he had once been rather proud of. It was hard not to know how his body looked, harder still to have no control over how anything that happened to his body. Since he was a child his control over how he looked and what he did had been important, he didn't know why exactly. It was just a part of him, as much as his need to dance. It was part of being seen, being recognized as unique. He had even wanted to train as a tailor. It was also a way of rebelling against what he was told to be, and a way of remaining in control of how he was viewed. He couldn't change that he was queer, but he at least had some control over whether he was seen as such. And sometimes, not very often, he reveled in dressing like a queen. Even if it got him a kicking behind the high school bleachers. It was a rebellion, and an ironic show of strength to allow his image to live up to the stereotypes, even if it was only very occasionally.

His body didn't feel like his own any more. He had no say in when he had his meals, when he wanted to be washed, even when he wanted to change position. It was all up to his nurses and doctors. His body didn't even look like his own anymore. His legs, which had once been well toned from dancing and track, were growing skinnier every day. The muscles of his arms and back, which were now disconnected from his brain were slowly shrinking despite the physical therapist's best efforts. During the fever, and the weeks after when he still had trouble eating, and had next to no appetite he had gone from slim, to gaunt. He had lost so much weight that you could count every one of his ribs, and every joint of his spine. The newly prominent joints made his skin awfully susceptible to pressure sores and it seemed one was barely healed before another began. His joints and muscles ached constantly, sometimes the pain was so bad it kept him up late into the night. There was little that helped ease the pain. He was given aspirin, but there were many occasions where it did little to ease the ache in his bones.

As days turned into weeks, he started breathing by himself for longer periods, though each breath still required his complete concentration. He was now managing just over fifteen minutes outside the respirator and even that left him exhausted, on the verge of passing out. During one of his examinations Dr. Carmichael had said his lungs were not expanding nearly as deeply as was normal, so each breath was not only hard on his muscles but because of he couldn't expand his lungs fully, each breath also didn't provide enough oxygen. His lungs were becoming, as Dr. Carmichael put it, 'junky.' Full of mucus he didn't have the muscles to expel. Part of his physical therapy routine each day was to do assisted coughs to try and keep his airways clear, it helped, but it didn't stop him from feeling as though he were perpetually on the tail end of a cold.

A nurse, or his step mother, who still spent most of her time in Akron, would bring him out of the respirator, or else reach through the portholes of the machine if he couldn't manage to breathe on his own. They would pound and rub his chest and back, pushing on his abdomen unil whatever broken connection linked his diaphragm and his brain woke up and triggered a fit of coughing. He would cough, and gag, and spit until the fit stopped, then the whole process would start again for as long as he could take it. This was done for at least half an hour a day, twice a day. Once when he woke up, once before he was readied for bed.

His days took on a dreary monotony, his nights, an unbearable loneliness. He could hardly find things to talk about when his father or stepmother visited. There was little to say, the elephant in the room hung over him. Not wanting to ask 'what if I am like this forever?' Not wanting to see his father's face fall when he asked. He tried to imagine spending months, years, lying in the iron lung, looking at this same ceiling every morning for the rest of his life. A feeling of indescribable pain and fear would wash over him when he thought like that.

It was six weeks to the day since he was admitted, when he first stayed out of the iron lung for just over fifteen minutes. His nurses cheered, as did Dr. Carmichael. It seemed like a small victory, but each minute longer he could breath gave him hope. Even if by the end he was on the verge of passing out. Around the same time he began receiving hot pack treatments, and even more physical therapy, which he wasn't nearly so pleased about. Because he could stay out of the iron lung he could be taken out during his therapy to have his legs stretched, or his chest pounded, or his arms rotated. Though of course each exercise was short, he couldn't comfortably breath on his own much more than ten minutes routinely, they were still painful. The worst were the thigh stretches. The physical therapist would take him by the ankle and force his leg towards his chest until the pain was so great he was sure his muscles would snap. His muscles were extremely tight, still caught and tightened by the spasms he had experienced during the fever. The stretching was meant to soften the muscles so he had a better chance of learning to use them again. But the days went by, and his legs still wouldn't move, and the therapy became no less painful.

Initially he thought the hot pack treatments would feel nice, like going to bed with a hot water bottle. No such luck it turned out. The hot packs were not just hot when they were placed on his limbs. They were near burning. The first time the nurse wrapped them around his legs the pain took his breath away and he was sure his skin was being burned off. But it wasn't, and a few minutes later he could breathe well enough to not feel like he was drowning.

The hot packs were heated in huge metal tanks of near boiling water which were wheeled into his room. Strips of greenish grey wool army blankets were dipped in the boiling water then rung out in a mangle like the one Carole used on the laundry. The nurse would wear rubber gloves and apron to protect her skin, but Kurt had no such protection. The only protection from the heat were strips of thin white linen placed between his skin and the hot wool. The hot packs were sandwiched between the strip of linen and another strip of dry wool blanket, or occasionally strips of rubber, to insulate it. These were then wrapped around his paralyzed limbs, around his back, his feet, even across his chest so that the steam would loosen the mucus in his lungs. The nurses would wrap the strips around his body, and by the time she was done he was usually gasping for air. Usually she would have to put him back into the iron lung once he was fully covered by the hot packs so that he could breath. The enclosed space made the heat all more powerful. The metal container became stiflingly hot and humid. Then as the hot packs cooled, if the nurse wasn't there in time to get them off right away, he would shiver with cold. On days when he couldn't manage the time outside needed to wrap the hot packs around his body, he was relieved to be free of the treatments. But he definitely felt the toll the missed treatments took on his body. The heat would relax his muscles, and on the days he could not have the treatment they again grew stiffer.

He began to dread the smell of wet wool, sometimes the smell was so overpowering it nearly made him gag. But at the same time there were times when he could feel the hot packs relaxing his muscles and easing his pain. He was grateful, there was little that eased his pain. The first minutes were an agony of burning and the last were cold and clammy, but in between the hot packs cooled down and the warm heat did it's work, trying to relieve the tightness in his muscles brought on by spasms during the fever. He even noticed that his legs lay flatter after each treatment, as it relieved the spasms behind his knees which had kept his legs drawn up and his back curved. The heat was the only thing that relieved the pain. After each treatment, despite the stinging, burning, sensation left on his skin by the hot wool, the deep ache would leave his muscles for a few blissful hours. Often he would want to fall asleep immediately after the treatment, as it was the only time he was pain free and relatively comfortable. Unfortunately much of the time he wasn't allowed to nap as his physical therapy would be done as soon as the hot packs were taken off because this was the time when his muscles were most pliable.

For years, most of his life had been defined by movement. And by the strength and grace of his body. He had danced for has long as he could remember. Played baseball almost every day in the summer. He even played hockey and football though he wasn't very good at either. In high school he had run track, and had been good at it too. Never the fastest on the team but always solidly in the top five runner at the school. There were meets he even won ribbons. Track had been the one place he felt he could make his father proud. No, it wasn't baseball or hockey, his father's high school sports, but it was a team nonetheless. What it really was, for Kurt anyway, was a place he could prove himself as a man. Most of Kurt's interests only added to the speculation among his classmates that he was an unrepentant sissy, worthy of nothing more than a head first trip down the stairs. What had begun as a way to prove his manhood to his classmates, and most importantly to his father, had become in some ways a salvation. When he ran he felt the same euphoria he felt when he danced or sang. It was as though he was outside of his body. Arms and legs pumping, breath coming hot and heavy, sweat pouring down his face, none of it mattered. When he pushed past it, he felt as though he were flying. As though he could put out his arms and soar far away from whatever he was facing down on the earth below. It was the same feeling he got on stage. When he hit a perfect high note, or landed a perfect jump. He felt as though his soul was soaring in extatic circles around the stage, wild and free. Without those outlets of energy, and the joy that came with them, Kurt felt as though part of him had been taken away. That combined with the fact that he didn't know if he would ever run or dance again, he struggled to find a purpose for a life he didn't know how to live. One that didn't even feel like his own.

It all felt more permanent now that he was presumably moving towards recovery. In a way it made him feel guilty, he wanted to feel as though he were moving forward, but he just felt useless and tired. He felt like kicking himself into wanting to fight. If he felt as though any progress were being made, he thought, perhaps he would be able to pull himself out of the slump. It wasn't that he didn't want to get well, he did, desperately so. He just felt so alone, and so weak that trying to feel hope for his future felt beyond him.


	10. September 15-17, 1944

The ten minute warning bell came fast on the heels of Lieutenant Hawkin's announcement, and as if on cue the plane shook with flak as though the plane was a bell toll being rung against a mighty clock.

Hawkins stood near the door as the red warning light switched on.

Blaine leaned back, closing his eyes and praying. He smiled, remembering the first time he had danced with Kurt, the first time they kissed, the first time they made love. _One memory_ , he thought, _if I die, let me die thinking of him._

"We're gonna be over the drop zone in about five minutes. We're taking heavy flak so hold on and be ready to jump." Hawkins called.

The plan had been given to them three days before. With the Germans withdrawn into the Lowlands after the landings in Normandy a few months ago, the Allies set their sites on another airborne invasion, this time, surprising the Germans deep in the Netherlands. In a coordinated jump with the 101st and what looked to Blaine like the whole British First Airborne, a good number of Canadians, and even an attachment of the Polish Army in exile who had escaped just as the war began, they would jump behind German lines in Holland to take eight bridgeheads and hopefully cut off German access to the industry of the Ruhr Valley. Blaine and his unit would jump near the city of Nijmegen, and take the nearby bridgeheads. If it went well, each of the bridge heads would be secured, and Allied troops would be able to pass through France and Belgium, up into Holland, and over these bridges into Germany. If it worked. If... A big if, Blaine couldn't help thinking. If their luck held, if he didn't end up impaled on a tree or shot dead in a ditch, if everything went exactly as planned, the war might be over soon. If they were phenomenally lucky, maybe even before the New Year. Each year they said that, "surely it will be over by Christmas." Or toasted "to peace in the New Year." Three Christmases come and gone without peace. More for the rest of the world he reminded himself. But even America's oceans could only keep them safe so long. When Pearl Harbor had been attacked, even in Ohio, young men had joined up in droves. Women had gotten jobs in newly built factories, and even old men went around selling war bonds and young children went around with red wagons to collect scrap metal. A group of little boys in his neighborhood had been caught attempting to take the bolts off the neighborhood porches to win school contests for scrap collecting.

The war began when Blaine had been just fourteen when the war began five years ago, and sixteen when Pearl Harbor happened. He'd been in training still when D-Day came, and was, he had to admit, a bit glad he hadn't been among those first waves of paratroopers jumping behind enemy lines, unsure if they would become trapped. There had been terrible stories. Men blown to bits in the air, dying stuck in trees, landing in water and drowning under the weight of their equipment. Then there were the horror stories from Omaha beach. Men falling in waves, torn down by gunfire. He shook himself, closing his eyes for a moment, praying harder than he ever had in his life.

"Get ready! Stand up, hook up!"

Blaine stood, wiping sweaty hands on his trousers before reaching up and hooking onto the line.

Next to him Eugene Prentiss, a broad chested veteran of both Sicily and D-Day, originally from Petoskey, Michigan, stamped out his cigarette. In front of him, Bob Stanley, a big Irish guy from Baltimore, was counting his rosary for probably the fifth or sixth time since they'd boarded the C-47. He didn't even need to look at the beads, counting them, and saying the prayers by memory as he hooked up one handed. _Hail Mary full of grace..._

"B Company, equipment check!"

"Ten okay!" Blaine heard from behind him. "Nine okay! Eight okay! Seven okay! Six okay!" he felt Bob Stanley checking his parachute and heard him call "Five okay!"

Once again Blaine ran his hands over his equipment, then reached out to check Prentiss's pack in front of him.

"Four okay!" he heard himself call, as though his voice were outside his body.

"Three okay!" Prentiss called. Then in front of them "Two okay! One okay!"

 _It's happening, it's really happening._ His stomach was already in his toes and they hadn't even jumped yet. _Hail Mary full of grace..._ came Bob's voice again, two voices from the back of the plane joined in, beginning the prayer again. _Our father, who art in Heaven..._

"Stand in the door!" Hawkins shouted to the first man. His name was Sam Glik, a 21 year old D-Day vet, born in Poland, and raised on Orchard Street in the beating heart New York's Jewish Lower East Side. The day before the jump in Normandy, he'd painted a big, black, Star of David, on the back of his flak jacket.

"I read in the _Forverts_ that they're making Jews wear a yellow star before they kill them." he'd said. "I want them to know who they're fighting." Underneath it he had painted a Hebrew word in blood red paint. _Nakam_ ; revenge.

Before D-Day they'd asked him if he wanted dog tags without the incriminating "H." He'd refused. " _If I die, I die a Jew,"_ he'd said.

Not only did his tags still hold the small H that could so easily end his life, he had melted a tiny brass Star of David charm, given to him by his sister before he left for basic training, to the back of the dog tags. Inside the lines of the star were two letters spelling the word _chai._ Life.

Glik looked behind him, winking and grinning at Blaine.

"See ya on da ground Anderson." The big red letters stood out against his jacket, mostly obscured by his parachute, but still visible. He weaved back and forth in the door, waiting for the order.

"Jump!" Glik fell from the window into the clear blue sky.

"Stand in door!"

In front of him Prentiss stood at the door of the C-47,

"Jump!" Prentiss jumped, and now it was Blaine in the door, looking down at Dutch farmland whizzing past below,

"Jump!" Hawkins yelled. And he did, almost without thinking. He pulled his parachute line and his decent slowed, floating down and landing hard in a mud puddle.

As Blaine cut himself loose from his parachute, he looked up, watching the rest of the paratroopers floating down around him.

It was oddly beautiful, looking up at the clear blue sky as parachutists dropped in their dozens, like so many white roses.

"Your helmet!" he heard a gruff voice call from behind him. Turning, he saw Bob Stanley walking towards him carrying a helmet, Blaine reached up and realized his helmet strap had broken and it had flown off,

"Don't lose that again," Stanley ordered with a half smile, patting Blaine on the back, and handing him the helmet. It must have been hit by something because there was a large dent in the side.

"Get your gun ready, and let's go. We can hook up with Glik and Prentiss over there then find the rest." he said, pointing.

A few hundred yards south were Prentiss and Glik, already cut away from their parachutes, were walking towards them.

"Hey Anderson, what the fuck happened to your helmet?"

"Strap broke, it flew off during the jump, but hey at least my head wasn't in it when it got hit."

"Lucky bastard," Glik commented, adjusting his pack. The man had a thick accent, New York slum street kid mixed with an immigrant's tongue.

"Okay, let's get a move on and keep sharp, looks like the first wave has this area clear like they were supposed to so we've got to head towards the town." Stanley ordered.

Blaine's eyes followed where Bob was pointing, there was gunfire, screams audible even from a distance. Taking his rifle from his back, Blaine nodded, following the older men to the fight.

When his father brought in the paper saying that Blaine's unit had been deployed in Holland, Kurt's eyes grew stony. He couldn't trust himself to react without sobbing, and that would have seemed, well... out of place. His father knew Blaine only as his son's best friend. The two had been inseparable throughout high school. But Kurt was going through the emotions of a soldier's lover, not his best friend. His true feelings would be a dead giveaway. It was a truth Kurt couldn't risk revealing, not now, while lying paralyzed in an iron lung. Maybe not ever. Not unless the world turned on its head and suddenly it was allowed for boys to kiss boys. Or for cripples to kiss anyone, he thought darkly.

"Kurt? What's going on kiddo? Didn't you hear what I said?" Burt asked, pulling Kurt out of his thoughts.

"Yeah Dad. Blaine's in Holland. I heard." He could speak for longer now. But he was still cut off in the middle of his sentence more often than not, so he tended to speak in short, clipped sentences. His father shook his head, a bit confused by his son's lack of any kind of emotional response. This stony veneer was quite unlike him.

"Do you want me to read it to you?" Burt asked,

"Yes." Kurt answered. He was interested, he wanted to know, the truth was he was terrified for Blaine. He just didn't have the energy to figure out what the correct response to his best friend- his lover- having just jumped deep into Nazi occupied territory.

Burt unfolded the copy of The Akron Beacon that he had picked up at the train station and began to read.

"Vast Allied Airborne Army Lands in Holland: "Allies Rain from Skies in New Threat to the Enemy. Sky troops fight as they hit earth"- it's by Walter Cronkite, you like him right? He says, 'thousands of Allied parachutists and gliders landed behind the German lines in the Netherlands, liberated village after village, from enemy troops who fled in panic before them, and as I write are pushing on to their first big objective, which they expected to reach by nightfall."

"Was he with the 82nd?"

"It doesn't say, this early in the fight they can't say where they are. But I'm thinking they must have dropped near the Rhine. If they push over the river through the Siegfried line, they could be in Berlin within three or four months if they're lucky, and the Russians are already halfway there. I'd say it's got to be their plan, to push through the Siegfried line and take Berlin before Stalin gets a chance."

"I miss him." Kurt whispered. "I know it's important- and I know he's fighting for- right, but I wish- he wasn't fighting. Finn either. Or at least I- wish I could be fighting- with them. "

"I know kid."

"I could have just lied- said I never had- rheumatic fever. Then I could- have fought. Done something useful. And I'd never- have gotten sick. I wouldn't- be like this." Kurt said bitterly.

"The doctor would still have listened to your heart and heard the murmur. And you could easily have gotten polio anyway. Round when you got sick there were cases coming from Camp Pike, last summer too. It was in the papers. You could have been shot in the back and been paralyzed just the same, at least we have hope you'll get well, you could have been killed. I almost lost you, I came so close to losing you Kurt. The doctor's were starting to talk about... I can't think how the fathers with gold stars in their windows feel. I'm so grateful I've still got you, no matter how. I'm so proud of Finn, but I'm glad I only have to worry about one son in the service. You give me enough to worry about here." he joked,

Kurt pursed his lips.

"I know kid, but you've got your own war to fight now, yeah?" After thinking for a moment, Kurt asked,

"What will they be like? When they-come home?" Burt shrugged his shoulders.

"I hope we've learned something from the first war that will help them. And I hope it will be easier cause they've been fighting for something. By the time we got into the first war no one knew what we were fighting for anymore. Just the guy behind you. And you were fighting over feet of useless land. Land that had already been bombed for years. It felt like a big, sick, sort of game. No matter how bad it gets, the boys in this war will know they fought for something worthwhile. That their sacrifice mattered."

"I just wish it were-all over. That they were-home safe again."

"We all do." exhausted and in pain, Kurt closed his eyes.

"I just want to know- they're safe. But we can't, especially- not now."

"I know. But you can't spend too much time thinking over that. You just focus on getting well Kurt." after a few minutes of silence, Kurt asked a question that had been bothering him for weeks.

"What if I don't- dad? What if this is it?"

"I don't know kid, but we'll work it out. Now, how 'bout we finish the paper then you have a bit of a rest, how's that sound?"

"Okay."

His father read the rest of the article aloud then moved to the inner pages, reading about local politics, and recent developments in the war in the Pacific.

"Does it say anything about Finn's unit?"

"No, but from his letters it sounds like he's on one of these islands they're talking about."

"When did you last get a letter?" Kurt asked, trying not to sound concerned.

"About ten days ago, the last one Carole brought in for you, he seemed alright wouldn't you say?"

"Yes. I suppose so. He sounds different though-in the letters-like he's trying to sound-cheerful when he isn't." His father nodded.

"I know. I'm sure if you read my letters from 1918, I'd have sounded just the same, 'cept I would've been trying not to complain about mud, not sand.

"Not much of a difference I suppose. When you're in it. Fighting's fighting. No matter where you are." Burt grunted in agreement.


	11. September 17, 1944

**September 17, 1944**

They finished reading the paper, it was mostly war news, though Kurt saw with a pang of sadness that one of the tailors in Lima had put out an ad for an apprentice. He'd talked to Mr. Zeiler about just such an eventuality only a few months ago after his shop boy had joined the air force. Mr. Zeiler had told him he was prepared to take him on as an apprentice for a year starting after Thanksgiving. He supposed it must have gotten around town that he wasn't going to be doing anything of the kind any time soon. Certainly not by Thanksgiving.

He twisted his fingers, trying to get them to remember the correct position to hold a needle and thread. They twitched weakly, cramping in protest. Tailoring was the one thing he held out hope that he might still be able to do one day. He could at least imagine being able to do it from a wheelchair. But all that would remain impossible if he didn't regain the use of his hands and his lungs. If even slight paralysis remained in his fingers it was unlikely he would be able to sew. Such a complete recovery seemed less and less likely with each day that passed. Even if he did get out of the iron lung, even if he did regain the strength in his hands and arms, how would he carry around bolts of cloth if his legs didn't return? How would he maneuver around a cutting table? Measure a tall customer? Work the foot pedal of a sewing machine?

"Did you tell Mr. Zeiler?" he asked, trying not to sound too accusatory, and failing rather dramatically. Burt's face fell, and he fingered the newspaper lightly, so Kurt had noticed the advertisement, he thought.

"Your step-mother told him. She had to, it wouldn't have been fair to him," Kurt grimaced, closing his eyes. He knew it was true. It wouldn't have been fair to leave old Mr. Zeiler with no help and distinct uncertainty that his would be apprentice would ever even be able to sew a seam again. It still stung though...

"What have you told-everyone?" Kurt asked, breaking his silence.

"Hmmm?" his father asked still focused on rereading the news from the Pacific, he'd returned to it after Kurt had seemed to retreat into himself. He'd learned from the time Kurt had been a young boy that once he stopped engaging trying to talk to him was useless.

"About me-getting sick. Do people know?" Burt folded the paper and set it aside.

"Yeah, they know. The newspaper published the names of everyone who got sick, and your step-mother made sure your friends were told. Her Ladies' Aid girls even brought meals to all the families. We've gotten letters from some of your old teachers if you'd like to read them. Most came while you were in isolation. I don't know how much Carole or your doctors have said but a lot of people got sick over those few days. About twenty bad enough to be in hospital, maybe more. A lot of kids got sick. It was classed as an epidemic all through Allen County, but the whole state was hit bad. The March of Dimes even sent help." Kurt looked surprised, he'd been so focused on his own illness that he hadn't stopped to consider that polio was rarely an isolated illness.

"They got funds to all the hospitals that needed them, even for you, the things you need to get better, to come home, they're giving us all of that." a memory came unbidden of the yearly concerts his high school's glee club had held for the March of Dimes. He'd never even considered then- never even given it a moment's thought- that he could end up just like those children he'd seen on newsreels, just like those people he'd raised money for. It was odd. He'd known that polio wasn't something that only happened in far away places. He remembered hearing about a few children getting sick each summer. Just like every other child he had been told to avoid swimming or using water fountains during the hottest days of summer. Like most other children he had ignored those commands. He hadn't gone swimming in the days before he had gotten sick. Hadn't shared a glass, or drank from a dirty fountain. Hadn't been to the movies or a dance, hadn't gotten overtired or been around anyone sick. Hadn't done any of the things you were told not to do to avoid polio. And it hadn't helped one lick.

"Was there-anyone I know-who got sick?" he asked, his voice shaking a little.

"No, they were mostly little kids. And no one died thank God, at least not in Lima. Carole says kids fight it off better than grown ups, so hopefully they'll all be okay."

"Who?" Kurt asked, he might not know them personally but in a town like Lima everyone knew almost everyone by sight or reputation.

"The Smith's daughter, she's back home now. Gerald Taylor's little boy, he's still hospitalized I think. Sammy Mallon, Joe Mallon's kid. It's hard to remember all of them. Most of them are back home already I think. There were lists up but I was so focused on you I hardly paid attention." Kurt shuddered, the children his father had listed were all under five years old. He knew them by sight, mostly from seeing them on their mother's laps at church. It was horrific to think of those same little kids in the position he was now. They should be running around, not trapped in an iron lung.

"They're not like this-now, are they?" Burt shook his head.

"No, it sounds like a few are still hospitalized, but, no. Carole talked to Dr. Warren, he said yours was the most severe case in Lima, and the only one that needed...well..." he rubbed the side of the iron lung lightly, like he was trying to reach for his son.

That was a relief at least, Kurt thought. He hated the idea of a kid being stuck like this, it was bad enough dealing with it himself. At least he understood what was happening for the most part, not during the fever maybe, but now. He might not have a say in much but at least he knew what was happening to him. He shuddered, thinking of his name on a list pinned up out front of city hall. Suddenly he wanted to know everything about what had happened during the epidemic. Not just what had happened to him, he didn't think he was ready to hear that, not yet. But what had happened in the town, to the others who got sick. He wanted to thank Dr. Warren too, and to ask some of the questions he was too embarrassed or frustrated to ask his doctors here. Like whether there was actually any point in exercising his legs or if his suspicions were correct and he would never regain the use of his legs no matter how many times a nurse wrapped them in hot packs.

"Can I see-Dr. Warren? Can you ask-him-to come?" Burt furrowed his brows, not quite sure why Kurt wanted to see Dr. Warren, he had plenty of doctors here, surely he could ask Burt if he wanted to know what had happened while he was sick. But maybe he didn't want to have to make his father relive it, or was too afraid to ask.

"Course, I'm sure he'd be happy to come." He thought for a moment,"Is there anyone else you'd like to see?" he asked somewhat awkwardly.

"I don't know. I don't like the idea-of people seeing me-yet. Not friends. Not like-this. It's hard to even have-a proper conversation. I'm- cut off- every other word. They wouldn't-understand. Too hard to-talk. Wouldn't want to-see me like- this. I don't want people-seeing me like-this." He had to stop talking for a moment, just those few sentences had exhausted him, his gut once again boiled with frustration that he couldn't even talk without getting tired.

" asked to come see you. I told him I wasn't sure if you were ready for visitors yet, but you should let him, it might do you good to see a familiar face."

"Maybe. I. I don't know. I'm not like I was-before. I'm not-good company."

"People want to be there for you. People want to see you, Kurt, whether you're well or not. They wouldn't care that you're still sick, they just want to know you made it through. See how you're still you."

"I'm not."

"I don't understand, Kurt, of course you're still you, you're strong, you'll beat this." Kurt glowered at him. Why couldn't he understand? Of course he wasn't still the same person! He never could be again. Not ever! He'd lost everything and no one seemed to understand that, they all acted as though he would be back on his feet and coming home soon and everything would be the same, but it wouldn't be, he wasn't going to come home like he was before. Not his body, certainly, that was all but obliterated, but not his spirit either. He'd been changed, in ways he didn't particularly care for. He was emotional and short tempered, his feelings were often erratic, and he always felt worn down and ready to cry.

"I'm not-still sick, and-I'm not still-me. Not like I was-before."

"Of course you are Kurt! Why would you say that? Of course you're still you."

"Because it's-true! I'm not the-same! Can't run, can't sing-can't work! I can't be-who I used- to be!" His father fell silent. All that was true of course, but it also wasn't, there was s much more to his son than the things he could do.

"None of that is you, those are just things you do, kid, you're so much more than that. If running or working in the shop was all you were I would have failed at raising you, and I don't like failing." Kurt didn't know how to argue with that, so instead he retreated back into silence, staring stonily at the ceiling.

A few minutes later a knock came on the door and Nurse Gold came bustling in,

"Hello, Kurt, how are you feeling today? Oh is this your father?"

"Yes, and I'm feeling alright, thanks." Kurt answered, managing a small smile

"Burt Hummel" his father introduced himself, standing to shake Nurse Gold's hand.

"I'm so sorry to barge in. I know visiting hours are short. But Kurt's normally got a physiotherapy appointment this time of day."

"It's alright. I'll just get going." his father said, starting to turn to go, picking up his coat and hat.

"No, no, so long as Kurt's comfortable with you staying. We'll only be about twenty minutes, I've already seen him once today. Then you'll have another half hour or so before visiting hours are over."

"Kurt?"

"He can stay if he wants." Burt looked down at his son. He felt distinctly like he was being tested. As though Kurt was asking him 'are you ready to see what actually happened to me? Or are you going to slink away like a sissy and be ashamed of what your son has become?'

"I'll stay. After all me and your step-mother will need to know how to do this once you're ready to come home." Kurt pursed his lips. He hated thinking about returning home a cripple. It was bad enough imagining spending months on end trapped in the iron lung, or if he was lucky, trapped in a hospital bed. Or ray of hope! If he perhaps would one day be strong enough to be trapped in a wheelchair. But it was almost worse to hear his father talking as though he would be home in only a few weeks, when Kurt knew it was far more likely to be months- years even- before he was healthy enough to come home.

"That's what I like to hear. It's always good to have parents ready to help. You ready to help me show your dad what we do Kurt?" God he hated when the therapists talked to him like that. It was infantilizing. He knew he had no say in the matter, and so did she so why put on the charade?

Kurt was silent, but didn't object either, so his physical therapist started her work. She opened the port holes and reached into the machine,

"Oh, let's get this changed out first" she muttered, though he no longer had a catheter, he couldn't properly use a urinal either, so they had given him a kind of rubber sheath that went over him instead of inside, buckled around his hips, and drained into a bottle through a rubber tube when he urinated. She was discreet, thank god, and he was fairly sure his father didn't see anything. Still, he blushed bright red.

"It's okay, kid, It's not like I thought you had a john hiding in there with you." his father joked. Kurt pursed his lips, not finding it very amusing.

"Let's start with your arms. Are your shoulders any better than this morning?"

"Still sore. Not quite as bad. They gave me aspirin."

"Good. Now, push against my hand. Good. Again. Good. Now try to grasp my hand." Kurt focused on his left hand, he could wiggle his fingers, but didn't have enough strength or coordination to actually grasp anything. With his father here, he wanted to succeed.

"You're getting closer. Try again, good. Try and make a fist. Good. Again, good. Now let's work on your other hand." She stretched his fingers, and had him move what little he could until his hands cramped up too badly to move any more.

"Deep breath in now Kurt, I'm gonna open up the respirator so we can stretch out your legs." 'Stupid.' Kurt thought, 'as though I've any control over how deep of a breath I take.' Kurt closed his eyes. He didn't relish the thought of his father seeing him. He didn't look much better than he had in isolation. He'd put on a bit of weight, but not nearly as much as he had lost during the fever. He still looked nearly emaciated he knew. And his limbs remained extremely spastic. Feet pointed down, legs drawn up at the knee and supported by cushions. His leg and upper arm muscles had already atrophied almost to nothingness, as had those in his chest and abdomen. He thought he probably looked something like a marionette, with its strings cut and put away in a box.

His chest fluttered unevenly as he tried to breath, the pain of the stretches making it even harder to catch his breath.

"Right now almost everything we're doing is about range of motion." She explained to Burt. "We need to make sure his muscles are loose enough so that once some movement starts to return he'll actually be able to use it. It should also help prevent his limbs from seizing up and becoming deformed, and should help his pain in the long run." Kurt glared at her, too focused on breathing to speak.

"Yes Kurt, I know it hurts in the moment, but it would hurt much worse the rest of the time if we didn't do this, believe me." She took his right arm, bending it up and down at the elbow, then drawing it across his chest, and then up over his head, then out perpendicular from his body. The tight muscles in his shoulder screamed in protest as she repeated the process several times before moving on to his left arm.

"Let's try a new one, I want to see if you can keep your arm upright like this, try and get those upper arms moving a little bit." She extended his right arm from the shoulder, then bent it upright at the elbow.

"Try and engage these muscles here, and also here along your chest." she held his arm lightly, keeping it upright. "You've got some very good traces here, I can feel your muscles trying to move. Can you feel that?"

"Yeah - like the muscle- is shivering- very small." She nodded,

"Small now, but any movement is good. Remember that. Any movement means the nerves are still alive and trying to work. So long as the nerves are still there you can build up at least a little muscle strength. Are you alright for me to let go of your hand?"

"Yes." She let go and his arm shook, but stayed up for a moment before falling back against his chest.

"That was very good, do you feel up to try the other arm?

"Yes. I'm ready." Though he was having to focus on his breathing, he found talking wasn't as difficult as he had feared, Kurt felt excited by this new found ability. Though his left hand was weaker, and he was unable to lift it at the wrist, he was actually able to hold his arm up better on that side, he was able to hold it up much longer, and the muscles in his left bicep didn't shake so badly.

"That was very good, we'll have to focus on building that up, you've got some real strength in there. Can you try to lift your arm from the shoulder for me? I want to see if the muscle is strong enough to move against gravity without help." Kurt tried, and he could feel the muscles engaged and trying to lift his arm. He focused as hard as he could but couldn't get the muscles to coordinate to pull his arm up."

"You're getting really close, that was very good Kurt! You'll just have to get the muscles working together a bit more and you'll be there." Kurt smiled to himself, feeling oddly proud. Nurse Gold moved down his cot and started working on his legs. Kurt grimaced. This was by far the worst part of physiotherapy.

She lifted his right leg from the cot, despite the supports under his knees and the wooden board meant to keep his feet from drooping, it was clear that the disease had shrunk and tightened his muscles. Because he needed help with toileting, he wore only white cotton drawers and undershirt, the drawers buttoned down either side so they could be easily pulled away, making them resemble childrens underwear. He felt much more naked than he was. He hated not being able to see what the nurse was doing. He could feel it- and god in heaven he wished he couldn't - but it was still deeply disconcerting. She would start by pushing her hand against the sole of his foot, forcing the foot flat much in the same way the board did, then pushing the foot down like a ballet dancer. She would start slowly, holding his foot and drawing the leg from side to side, making the tightened muscles deep in his hips sing with pain. Then she would lift his leg at the ankle and knee, and push his knee as close to his chest as possible, until it felt like the muscles in his thigh would snap in two. She would do this at least a dozen times on each side, it felt like she was pulling his muscles like taffy in a candy store.

Kurt screwed up his face, trying to stop himself from screaming or crying in front of his father. By the time Nurse Gold moved on to his left leg, he couldn't keep himself from groaning.

"We're almost done Kurt, just hang in there a few more minutes." he grunted in response, fairly sure his hamstring was going to snap in two. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to escape from his body, trying to focus on his breathing rather than on the burning pain in his muscles. In his half stupor, he felt a large hand around his own. Looking up, he saw his father by his side. He grimaced, turning his head away.

"Don't do that Kurt, please, I'm here, I'm not going anywhere." Kurt pursed his lips, focusing on his breathing, refusing to start crying. He had thought his father being there would help, would make him feel less alone, less of a freak. But it just made him feel incredibly exposed. He had always been self-conscious about measuring up to his father's masculinity. His father had never belittled him for it, not like his classmates, or even some of his teachers had, but he still had always had the nagging feeling that his father would have preferred a son who was less... well, less like him. He felt Nurse Gold put his leg down, and started to rearrange his limbs into a slightly more comfortable position.

"Alright Kurt, all done." she said, patting his leg. She closed the iron lung back up and Burt was glad to see some color return to Kurt's cheeks, they'd gone quite pale and his lips taking on a deep purple color as he struggled to get enough air. Nurse Gold positioned herself at the head of the machine so Kurt could see her,

"You did really well today Kurt, I mean it, let me get you a couple hot water bottles and something for the pain, then why don't you try and take a little nap, how does that sound?" Kurt didn't answer, he couldn't trust himself to speak.

"Would you like a cup of coffee Mr. Hummel?" Burt nodded, taking up his seat again beside the head of the iron lung.

"If it's no trouble, thanks,"

"Kurt, if I brought something for you do you think you could eat, you aren't gaining weight nearly as quickly as we'd hoped. Maybe a glass of milk or some soup?"

"I don't want anything." Burt's face fell, he couldn't watch his son torture himself like this. When he had caught a glimpse of Kurt's body as he had been lifted into the iron lung while being moved out of isolation, he had been shocked by how thin Kurt had become. He had only been sick for two weeks, and they had given him food through a tube in his nose, but he had lost so much weight that the doctors were still giving him supplements to try and stimulate his appetite. Nothing seemed to work, and as his muscles atrophied further he remained dangerously thin.

"Please, Kurt, don't do this. I know that was awful, and I know you're exhausted, but please. I need you to keep fighting Kurt, please."

"I am fighting, Dad. All the time." Kurt answered, his voice choked with emotion.

"I know. I know, buddy. I just can't stand seeing you not eat... please..." Kurt looked up at his father, his eyes looked almost quizzical. He had never seen his father look like this, he couldn't remember having ever seen him cry except when his mother died.

"It scares me... seeing you like this... I'm... sometimes it seems as though one day you'll just slip away." It almost sounded as though he were holding back tears. _I wonder if he cried when I got sick_... he thought. Though some things had returned there were still large gaps in his memory, which was a distinctly disquieting feeling.

"Alright," he relented, "I'll have some soup." He wanted to be able to reach out to his father, to say what he couldn't put into words.

"I am fighting, dad, I'll keep fighting, I'm just...tired." Until that day he hadn't really grasped that the world was going by while he was unable to have any part in it. He didn't want to think about someone else apprenticing under Mr. Zeiler, of someone else helping his father in his shop, of someone else eventually taking the place at Blaine's side when Blaine eventually came home and became tired of a lover who couldn't survive more than ten minutes outside an iron lung. Was this really going to be how the rest of his life was like? Having no contact with the world outside what he could see reflected in a mirror?

"I know. I am too. I am too kid." His father said comfortingly, he reached out and stroked Kurt's hair. Kurt grimaced. He didn't want to be comforted, he wanted to scream, or punch something. Burt pulled his hand away, unsure what he did wrong. Kurt grunted in frustration,

"What's wrong, are you in pain?" his dad asked, his eyebrows furrowed.

 **September 17, 1944. Nijmagen, the Netherlands.**

Ahead, Blaine saw a group of women huddled against the side of a building. Their heads had been shorn, and most were no more than half dressed, their undergarments torn, and their hands over their breasts. They hung their heads in shame, they all were covered in cuts and bruises. He walked towards them slowly, lowering his weapon so they wouldn't be frightened. He couldn't fathom what had happened to them, it made no sense. Most of the Dutch women seemed ecstatic, greeting their liberators with open arms, orange banners, and kisses on the cheek. Some were a bit too thin, in worn clothes and most wore wooden soled shoes, but none of the Dutch women he had seen before had looked like this. As he approached four of the girls stood and ran, clutching their slips around their thin bodies. A girl, and she really was a girl, she couldn't be more than sixteen, maybe seventeen, stayed behind, weeping. Her knees were drawn up, hiding her thin breasts, and her shoulders were racked with sobs. She drew away as he approached and knelt in front of her, as though she wanted to disappear into the stone wall behind her. She looked up at him, her brown eyes pleading.

"I didn't want to!" the girl whispered in broken English. "I hate the Germans! The basterds! I didn't want him. My father... we needed food... we were starving. It was warm there. And papa was so sick... I just wanted to get warm..." she muttered, running her hands over her shorn hair, hugging the two sides of her torn blouse together over her scratched breasts. Her body was covered with bruises in various stages of healing. Fighting a wave of nausea as he looked at her, Blaine took out a bar of chocolate, and pressed it into her fingers. She shied away at first, as though she didn't want him to touch her, but eventually took it. She looked down at it with dead eyes. Shaking her head she turned away from him, crawling to her feet. As she limped away he saw her thin fingers tear at the paper covering the chocolate. She savoured a small corner, tucking the rest into the pocket of her skirt.

"Private! Don't give your shit to that whore. Give it to the kids for fucks sake, she doesn't deserve it!" Sargent Bob Stanley called beckoning Blaine over to him with the butt of his M-1. Blaine went over to him, eyebrows furrowed.

"Whore?" Blaine asked, puzzled, the girl didn't look like that. She looked more like someone who'd been... He couldn't even think of it it was so horrific. Besides, she couldn't be, she was barely more than a child.

"Those are the women who fucked the Germans." Sargent Stanley explained. "Right after the 101 got here, the towns people marched them through the streets, and shaved their heads to punish them. I mean can you blame them? Those girls were collaborators!" Blaine shook his head.

"No, she said she didn't want to! That they forced her. You saw her, no one deserves that! Besides man look at her, she barely looks sixteen! She's a kid goddammit! How could she have wanted it?"

"Bullshit." Bob snapped back. "Of course she'd say they forced her. Then she doesn't have to own up to screwing a Kraut!" Blaine shook his head in disgust, walking away. God how could anyone think a girl like that wanted it? Even if she had... no one deserved that kind of humiliation, he thought. She was just a kid.


	12. Chapter 12

**September 17, 1944. Nijmagen, the Netherlands.**

 _TW: witnessing the aftermath of an assault, violence against women and girls, forced prostitution, survival sex work._

Ahead, Blaine saw a group of women huddled against the side of a building. Their heads had been shorn, and most were no more than half dressed, their undergarments torn, and their hands over their breasts. They hung their heads in shame, they all were covered in cuts and bruises. He walked towards them slowly, lowering his weapon so they wouldn't be frightened. He couldn't fathom what had happened to them, it made no sense. Most of the Dutch women seemed ecstatic, greeting their liberators with open arms, orange banners, and kisses on the cheek. Some were a bit too thin, in worn clothes and most wore wooden soled shoes, but none of the Dutch women he had seen before had looked like this. Their clothes looked as though they had been quite well made before they had been torn, and they wore silk stockings and lipstick. As he approached four of the girls stood and ran, clutching their slips around their bodies. He noticed blood running down one of the women's legs. A girl, and she really was a girl, she couldn't be more than sixteen, maybe seventeen, stayed behind, weeping. Her knees were drawn up, hiding her thin breasts, and her shoulders were racked with sobs. Her legs were bare and he could see blood dripping down one from a long scrap running from her knee nearly to her ankle. She drew away as he approached and knelt in front of her, as though she wanted to disappear into the stone wall behind her. She looked up at him, her brown eyes pleading.

"I didn't want to!" the girl whispered in broken English. "I hate Germans! I didn't want him. My father... we needed food... we were starving. It was warm there. And papa was so sick... I just wanted to get warm..." she muttered, running her hands over her shorn blonde hair, hugging the two sides of her torn blouse together over her scratched breasts. Her body was covered with bruises in various stages of healing. Fighting a wave of nausea as he looked at her, Blaine took out a bar of chocolate, and pressed it into her fingers. She shied away at first, as though she didn't want him to touch her, but eventually took it. She looked down at it with dead eyes. Shaking her head she turned away from him, crawling to her feet. As she limped away he saw her thin fingers tear at the paper covering the chocolate. She savoured a small corner, tucking the rest into the pocket of her skirt.

"Private! Don't give your shit to that whore. Give it to the kids for fucks sake, she doesn't deserve it!" Sargent Bob Stanley called, beckoning Blaine over to him with the butt of his M-1. Blaine went over to him, eyebrows furrowed.

"Whore?" Blaine asked, puzzled, the girl didn't look like that. She looked more like someone who'd been... He couldn't even think of it it was so horrific. Besides, she couldn't be, she was barely more than a child.

"Those are the women who fucked the Germans. Their little girlfriends." Sargent Stanley explained. "Right after the 101 got here, the towns people marched them through the streets, and shaved their heads to punish them. I mean can you blame them? Those girls were collaborators!" Blaine shook his head.

"No, she said she didn't want to! That they forced her. You saw her, no one deserves that! Besides man look at her, she barely looks sixteen! She's a kid goddammit! How could she have wanted it?"

"Bullshit." Bob snapped back. "Of course she'd say they forced her. Then she doesn't have to own up to screwing a Kraut!" Blaine shook his head in disgust, walking away. God how could anyone think a girl like that wanted it? Even if she had... no one deserved that kind of humiliation, he thought. She was just a kid.

As they walked down the street they heard the _pop pop pop_ of a German submachine gun. Bob motioned for him to get down and they squatted behind a large wooden barrel. Blaine peered around the side,

"The window of that house over there," Blaine whispered, "second floor, third window on the left, sniper with an MG42."

"Do you have a clear line?" Blaine nodded.

"You're a good shot kid, if you have it, take it." Blaine's hands were shaking as he set the sites on his rifle.

"Stay steady Anderson. You've got one shot." Blaine was shaking like a leaf, holding his breath as he squeezed the trigger. The man fell backward, and the machine gun lay silent. Blaine fell back against the barrel, breathing hard. _Oh god I killed a man..._ it was spinning through his head. Bob peered over the barrel, checking to make sure the man wasn't getting back up.

"Good shot, you've done good. Let's go take that gun down, we don't need another Jerry sniper getting ahold of that."

The German soldier was about his own age, with curly ginger hair and freckles on his nose. The bullet had hit his chest, near his throat, and he'd fallen into a huge puddle of blood. It was clear he was already dead. Blaine felt the color drain from his face. Bile was rising in his throat and he ran from the room, falling on his knees near the head of the stairs and vomiting until nothing but bile came up. He had stopped a life. Taken a life. A person who had been living and breathing with a future and hopes just minutes ago was just a shell lying in his own blood. He sobbed and swore, pulling himself up by the banister and stumbling back into the room where the man's body lay.

"You done?" Bob asked, Blaine nodded, wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his flak jacket. His mouth tasted bitter.

"Okay then, let's get rid of this thing and get back, we need to be at the river by nightfall." they hauled the gun out the window and it smashed on the pavement. Bob threw a grenade down for good measure and the two men braced themselves against the wall, counting down the seconds to the explosion.

The blast broke every window in the house, but they had been right that no one would walk by in the intervening seconds so at least no one had been injured.

"Let's go Anderson." Bob said, clapping him on the back. "We gotta get back before they leave town." Blaine nodded, he still couldn't take his eyes off the man's body, now covered in dust and shards of glass.

"If you hadn't taken him out, he would have killed our guys. Now let's go, nothing you can do about it." Blaine closed his eyes for a moment and nodded again, following Bob down the stairs. He breathed in slowly, imagining what Kurt would say if he were here.

 _I still love you darling. You're still a good person. I promise, love..._

 **Evening, September 18, 1944**

The next day, Blaine found the girl lying a few blocks away from where he had given her the chocolate, with a bullet through the back of her head. This was no accident, he thought, no "caught in the crossfire", though he was sure that was how her death would be recorded. This was one last punishment. God, he hoped the German soldier who violated her was among the dead. That whoever had killed the poor girl was with him in Hell.

He knelt down beside her, taking the blanket from his pack to cover her body. Her brown eyes were wide open, the bar of chocolate still in her hand. Her blouse hung open, exposing her bruised body. Her skirt had been pushed up over her knees and Blaine felt like vomiting as he thought about what that meant. He felt tears fall as he pulled the blanket over her broken body. Breathing deeply to stop the tears, he stood, and went to find someone to help him carry her to the morgue. There was no need for a medic, she was long dead. The flies had already begun their work. He went to find Sam Glik, the one he felt would be the least likely to make any comment about how the girl had ended up like that.

Through increasingly heavy rain he helped Sam carry her body to Nijmegen's tiny morgue, overwhelmed by civilian dead, and by the soldiers who had been taken there awaiting burial. When they began to lift her body, her identity card fell from her pocket. Lowering her gently back to the ground, Blaine stooped to pick it up. The girl's name was Sonja. She was a few weeks from her seventeenth birthday. Blaine felt like he was going to be sick. The disgusting truth of what had been done to this girl was now fully evident to him.

"What was her name?" Sam asked softly,.

"Sonja Neuman." Blaine choked out, his voice barely audible above the rain and the sounds of battle.

"As long as they have a name they can at least tell her parents."

They had to bribe the coroner to take her body. But after giving him a few packets of cigarettes, he agreed to take her body. For another two packs, he finally agreed to tell her parents that their daughter had been killed. He spoke English rather well, and had relayed to them that the girl had become a girlfriend of a particularly brutal SS man, who'd been known for his appetite for beautiful Dutch women, especially the young ones. With a disgusted look towards Sam, the coroner said the man had been there to find Jews hiding in the town and have them "got rid of."

They walked back to their unit in silence, only the sound of the British fighting at the next bridgehead several miles away.

"Was this the girl Bob said you gave your chocolate to yesterday?" Sam asked quietly.

"Yeah, he told me not to, cause she was a collaborator. But I don't think she was. I think that's why someone killed her. I don't think it was an accident."

"Who do you think it was?"

"I think it was the Kraut who was keeping her. It sounded like she was working in one of their brothels. But she was so young, she looked the same age as my kid sister, and she didn't want it, she couldn't have."

"We saw this in France too. But they didn't kill them. The resistance made all the Nazi's girlfriends march through the town with their shirts off. It was awful though, they made them walk with their hands above their heads, and they held knives at them so they couldn't bring their arms down to cover themselves." Blaine shivered, feeling dirty and sick. They walked in silence back to the rest of their unit, camped just outside of Nijmagen, ready to march to join the fighting at the bridge head. About half way there Blaine asked a question that had been nagging at him,

"What did he mean by 'have them got rid of'?" he asked a bit nervously. Glik shook his head, and kept walking, kicking stones with the toe of his boot. They walked in silence for several more minutes before Sam tried to answer,

"They killed them. I think, they killed them all. I read about the places they've taken the Jews. There's one place, they found it in July. It's called Majdanek. The Russians found piles of ash, tons and tons of it. Hardly anyone was left alive. They called it a 'death camp.'"


	13. October 6, 1944, South Pacific

_Dear Finn,_

 _It was good to hear from you, Kurt's face lights up when he gets your letters. He misses you so much, we all do. I'm sure you're waiting on an update on his health, and I'm glad to say he's getting a bit better each time I see him He's been in his own room for a couple weeks now, and it seems to agree with him. I do worry he's lonely though, he's not agreed to any visitors besides me and your stepfather. And there isn't much he's able to do independently, so if someone isn't there, it's hard for him to amuse himself. His health is better, he's not quite so tired any more, he's starting to look a bit healthier, and he's got a bit more movement in his hands. He's had me or his nurses read him the paper every day, following you like a hawk just like Burt does. I've been staying in Akron with my friend Judy some days, do you remember her? We used to work together, before Burt and I married, you used to stay with her when I had to work late. Burt comes when he can but he has to keep the shop running. People try to help, but it's difficult. Burt actually hired a young woman, there were no men to hire and he needed the help, she's talented, a clever little thing. It lets Burt take more time off to be with Kurt. And Kurt needs us as often as he can get us, I worry that he still has a lot of pain. More than he lets on I suspect. An orthopedist came to see him, but didn't have much help to offer us. And he's been quite on edge lately. He told Burt he didn't feel like himself anymore, and that he didn't want his friends to see him now that he's different. I think he is more afraid people will behave differently around him. And of course he doesn't like asking for help, but he's going to need it. He'll need all of us to help him, maybe for a long time._

 _I know our letters have focused a great deal on Kurt lately, I know in a way it is what we both need. But darling, I want you to know that you still can write us anything you need about what has happened to you. You don't need to say it's all sand and sunshine. I know it isn't. We've both got our troubles and it's better if we share them, love._

 _I miss you darling. I miss getting to see you each morning. I miss making you breakfast and sending you off to work. Take care of yourself darling, we need you. We all miss you so much. We love you. I'm writing this in Kurt's room, he's asleep right now, wore himself out in therapy poor lamb, but I'm sure he'd like me to say that he loves and misses you too._

 _I love you darling,_

 _Mom_

Finn folded the letter and slipped it into a leaf of the small, breast pocket testament his mother had given him. He hadn't received a letter in nearly two weeks, and though he knew it was difficult to get mail, to a remote island in the South Pacific, he still worried about what the next letter would bring. The book now was near to bursting its spine as he had kept each letter he had received since being deployed neatly tucked between its leaves. He only really carried it because his mother had given it to him, and because it had been his father's in the Great War. He hoped he would fare better than his father had. Though at least he had come home, so maybe there was some luck in the little book. Even if he had come home with demons in his head and gas burns in his lungs. And a bottle in his hand. It hadn't taken him long after Finn was born to drink himself into enough of a stupor for pneumonia to take hold in his gas damaged lungs, he'd died before Finn's third birthday.

He sometimes envied how vividly Kurt remembered his mother, his own memories of his father were little more than momentary flashes. Most he wasn't even sure were real memories just scenes from photographs he'd become so accustomed to seeing in old photo albums that they felt like memories. He sometimes felt guilty for envying Kurt those memories, as they caused him so much pain and grief. Their parents had gotten married when both boys were eleven, just three years after Kurt had lost his mother. The boys had shared a room for a time, before Burt had rebuilt the back parlor on the first floor into a bedroom for his stepson. Finn remembered that Kurt had often cried himself to sleep, and sometimes he'd been awoken by nightmares about his mother's death. He'd woken shaking, refusing to let Finn get his father or step-mother to comfort him. He'd just curl back up in bed and pretend to fall asleep again, but by the dark circles he often had under his eyes Finn knew he often didn't. As the boys got to know each other better, Kurt had revealed that he had seen his mother bleeding, and going off in the doctor's car and that often he'd have terrible dreams about it. He later learned from Kurt's father that the aunt who had come to stay with Kurt that night had found him asleep on his parent's bloodstained bed. Finn was surprised Kurt had ever slept again. As the boys grew closer, as they became real brothers, they had shared with each other photographs of their dead parents. Together they had taped the photos in an album, then Kurt had pricked each of their thumbs with the point of his pocket knife and the two had become blood brothers.

It was while Kurt was recovering from his bought of rheumatic fever that the boys really became brothers. It was about six months after their parents had gotten married, shortly after Kurt's twelfth birthday. While Kurt was sick, after he was out of quarantine, he had asked Finn to bring out a box full of photos of his mother. His hands were shaking as he pulled the photos out. The swelling of his knuckles was nearly gone, but his hands still shook from what Dr. Warren had called St. Vitus's dance.

"This one was of her on her wedding day," Kurt said, handing the photo to Finn,

"She was so pretty, like movie star" Finn had smiled, going to his bed and pulling his own box of photographs from under the bed skirt.

"My parents got engaged in 1917. They married in 1918, just before dad left for Europe. When he came home he wasn't well. He was in a sanatorium because his lungs were burned with gas.

"That's awful," Kurt mormered, taking the photo in shaky hands.

"He looks like you you know. He was awfully handsome in that uniform, Carole must have been proud of him." Finn smiled sadly.

"She was. But then he started drinking. He was able to stop at first, but he started again after I was born. When his lungs got bad again. Mom said it was the only thing that took away the pain." Kurt looked down,

"I'm sorry." Kurt said, handing the photo back to Finn.

"It's funny that we both keep them under the bed." Finn said, perching himself on the edge of Kurt's bed.

"I suppose so," Kurt had pushed himself into a sitting position, then held his head in his hands as it pounded and lights flashed before his eyes. He had groaned a little and Finn had drawn away slightly, unsure what he was supposed to do.

"I'm alright, just a headache" Kurt's cheeks were flushed, and his eyes had begun to sparkle again, the fever that had come down overnight beginning to spark again with a vengeance, as it had been doing for several days.

"I should get my mom" Kurt nodded, sinking into his pillows, his fingers were red and swollen again and jerked slightly against the bedclothes.

A few days later Finn had used his pocket money to buy a blank photo book, covered in red leather. He and Kurt had pasted their photographs in it together, calling it their "Remembering Book". The two had always kept it close, had cherished it always. That summer, when Kurt had been well again, the two boys had gone hiking in the woods together, when they sat on a log to have their lunch, Kurt had taken out his pocketknife and each had sliced their thumbs open, just a little, and held their thumbs together. Kurt had said it had made them blood brothers, which was as good as real brothers, if not better, because it meant they had chosen each other, not just been born to the same parents.

Finn took the letter from his pocket again, and unfolded it, rereading it slowly. He wondered if Kurt had again suffered from nightmares during his illness. He remembered the nightmares being worse when Kurt had rheumatic fever. The fever had come and gone for weeks, and the pain and lengthy bedrest seemed to make it impossible for him to get any real rest. Again, he found himself wondering what his brother would be like when he returned home. What if he was still as completely helpless as his mother had described in her letters? He shuddered, thinking of his small, downstairs bedroom. Most likely it would have to be Kurt's now, so he wouldn't have to navigate the stairs. And what about his lungs? He hadn't been breathing on his own for over a month, what if he still couldn't? Would he have to be kept in some kind of sanitarium or hospital for the rest of his life? He tried to remind himself that President Roosevelt had polio, and he was president. He was fighting a two front war against Hitler and Hirohito. He was a hero. Surely Kurt could manage to live a somewhat normal life at home if the president could do all of that. _But President Roosevelt isn't in an iron lung._ A cruel little voice in his head countered. _He can move his arms and breathe on his own. He can stand to make speeches. Kurt can't do any of that. Even if he can come home, nothing will be normal._

"Hey Sarg, the mail's in, I've got a letter for you," Finn nearly jumped out of his boots reaching for the letter,

"Thanks," he said absentmindedly, sitting back down and ripping open the envelope as fast as he could.

In it was a small photograph and it took a moment to grasp what it was. It was Kurt and his mother. Kurt was in a hospital room, in a bed with the head raised so he was sitting at nearly a thirty five degree angle. There was an open iron lung standing behind them and Finn's mother was standing beside the bed smiling, she stood with one hand resting on Kurt's shoulder, and the other holding his right hand. Kurt was smiling too, but there were visible dark circles under his eyes, even in the photograph Finn could see how thin he was and how tired he looked. His head was positioned unnaturally, as though he couldn't move his neck, and around his neck was what seemed to be a rolled up towel to keep his chin up. His arms were supported by pillows and he'd raised one of his hands a little, like he was trying to wave at the camera. It was less than effective because his hand hung limply at the wrist and his fingers were curled up. His thumb jutted out at an odd angle and he seemed to be attempting to raise a few of his fingers. His hand was only raised maybe five inches from the bed and it seemed to be taking all of his concentration to hold even that small movement. He wore what, even in black and white, Finn could recognize as his lavender silk pajamas from home. They dwarfed him now, hanging loosely about his body. Finn's heavy white wool sweater was wrapped around him, the sleeves rolled up several times to accommodate Kurt's smaller frame. He wore some kind of brace around his torso and his feet were supported by a board strapped to the foot of the bed. The quilt that had been sewn by Kurt's mother while she was pregnant with him was tucked neatly around his legs. The bed didn't look like a normal bed, or even like any hospital bed he had seen before. The head could be raised by the mechanism of a crank attached to the foot of the bed so that it looked almost like a large chair. It was clearly a bed for a sick person. He turned the picture over and read the caption written in his mother's neat script. _Kurt's first time in a real bed._ Finn couldn't help but smile a little, as tired and sickly as Kurt looked, he looked genuinely happy, at least at that moment. He would take that bit of consolation, he thought, at least Kurt wasn't completely miserable, at least not all the time. He took the small v-mail letter from the envelope and leaned back against the palm tree to read it.

 _My darling boy,_

 _I thought it might bring you some comfort to actually see how Kurt is doing. I hadn't wanted to take any photographs before now, he wouldn't have been amenable to it and they wouldn't have had very good memories attached to them. But I thought it would be good for you to see him as he is now, so it isn't such a shock once you're home. He told me he is afraid people would be scared of how he looks now, so I thought some photographs might help him feel a bit less self-conscious. He is improving, its slow, but as you can see he's got a bit more movement in his arms. He's breathing a little better too, enough that they finally brought in a bed for him, which means he can be a little more comfortable during his therapy. They can sit him up for a few minutes and he says it helps his back feel a bit better._

 _I was quite proud to hear about your promotion in your last letter, though I was concerned this might be a more dangerous job, you know I worry about you. You'll try and keep yourself safe, won't you dear? Even as you're making a name for yourself in the history books? I love you, and I pray each day to have you home safe and sound._

 _Stay safe love, I am so proud of you,_

 _Mom_

Finn looked at the photo again, trying to believe that this boy was his brother. From his pocket testament he pulled a photograph of the two of them on a camping trip over the summer of 1941. They held a comically large fish between them, nearly up to their waists in water. Kurt was laughing, his head thrown back in glee.

He remembered that day. They had woken up early, had coffee and fried eggs on toast and kippered herring that Kurt had prepared over their campfire. They had packed sandwiches and thermoses of soup and coffee then headed out to the lake where they rented their usual small row boat. The first few hours had been uneventful, and soon Kurt had taken out a book and assumed his usual position of balancing his fishing pole between his knees so that he would feel if there was a pull, while becoming engrossed in his novel. Burt had poured coffee and they had sat watching sunrise turn to daylight, then to bright midday sun. A few hours in, Kurt startled, dropping his book and exclaiming,

"I've got a big one!" They were near the shallow eddies of the lake, not expecting to catch anything large, just hoping to get enough for their supper. But sure enough, Kurt had caught an enormous, elderly northern pike who had been looking for easy prey in the reeds and shallow waters. Kurt had struggled to pull the fish in, and eventually the two boys jumped in the water and hauled the fish out bodily.

"Take my knife!" Finn had called taking hold of the line and holding it taught. Kurt had reached over the side of the boat for the knife and with rather impressive precision, struck the fish between the eyes with the handle, stunning it enough for the two boys to haul it the few feet to shore. The water had reached well above their waders and both boys were utterly soaked from the splashing. They looked at each other and both burst out laughing. They heard clapping and looked over their shoulders where they saw a group of other fishermen had gathered to admire the boy's catch.

Burt had grounded the row boat and thumped Kurt on the shoulder in congratulations.

"That must be nearly a forty pound fish you got there! Let's get a photo for your mother. She'll love to see this." Kurt knelt by the fish and slit its gills, letting it bleed out on the grass. When the fish stopped twitching, Kurt and Finn lifted it onto their shoulders as their father snapped the photograph. The nearby men had clapped and cheered, and the shop owner had put his name and the weight of the fish on the wall. They had roasted the fish over a huge fire that night, and men from all around the campsite came to eat with them. Kurt had been so deeply proud of himself. Finn knew that Kurt was often left out of the activities most of the other boys had participated in.

Finn hadn't known Kurt when he was a young child but he knew Kurt had always been, well, different. He had played with girls more often than boys, and he'd never been particularly interested in playing ball or cowboys and indians. He preferred tea parties, and reading, and sewing. There were surely things he participated in with other boys. He liked ice skating, and didn't mind throwing around a baseball. He enjoyed being out in the wilderness and tapped trees and caught fish with his father. But he always seemed somewhat of an outsider, away from the groups of boys Finn fit so easily into, like there was a puzzle piece inside him that he couldn't quite fit together. Taunts of "sissy" and "girl" always followed him, no matter how much he tried to seem manly enough. These differences had become more noticeable after he had contracted rheumatic fever at age twelve.

The winter had started with Finn contracting strep throat which had kept him in bed for a week. Kurt had gotten sick a few days later and the two boys had had great fun entertaining each other with games that could be done from bed once they began to feel better. However, just two weeks later, after it had seemed both boys were perfectly healthy, Kurt had woken up in the middle of the night with a raging fever and a terrible rash all over his body. Kurt had been in bed for over two months, but it had taken him well over four months to recover his strength enough to return to school. Finn couldn't ever remember seeing anyone so sick.

At first, when the fever had raged, and all four of them had been quarantined in the house, Kurt wasn't allowed out of bed at all, and Finn wasn't allowed in their shared room for fear he would catch the disease. Finn had slept on the downstairs sofa for the first few days, then Burt had set up a bed in the back parlor. His joints had been swollen at first, and Dr. Warren had told them that when the swelling happened it was imperative that he didn't walk around as it could damage his heart. This meant that for weeks he had barely been allowed out of bed. Finn hadn't seen him for weeks while he was quarantined in his room, then had barely seen him for weeks more as he recovered. When he came out of quarantine he had been weak and shaky, he could hardly walk downstairs, and he still suffered from St. Vitus's dance and sometimes recurrent fevers and swelling. He hadn't had the energy to go back to school that year, instead, Carole had given him his lessons once he felt well enough.

The fever had come and gone, ebbing and flowing like the tide for several weeks after the quarantine was lifted. During the two week quarantine he was kept in bed, not even allowed to go to the bathroom. But as soon as the quarantine was up he was allowed to walk about as much as he was able, so long as none of his joints were swollen, but he was still nearly always in bed for weeks longer. Finn remembered his mother holding firmly to Kurt's elbow, with her arm wrapped around his back, helping him walk back and forth along the hallway to keep his muscles from becoming too weak. Finn remembered how Kurt had leaned his head on her shoulder, exhausted, and then she'd walked him back into the sick room, holding him close as he walked on shaking legs.

When Kurt had finally recovered, he had missed nearly half a year of school, and it had taken him ages before he was well enough to do much more than sit on the sofa and read. That spring, as the days lengthened, Carole encouraged the Kurt to walk up and down the road to regain his strength. By the middle of summer he was running, and he hadn't ever stopped, at least not until now.

He looked back down at the photograph, blinking as his eyes had become suddenly clouded. Kurt was standing so easily in the first photo, so strong, as though it was nothing. His legs were nothing like that now. In the second, they were tucked away, hidden under a quilt, away from view. His mother had said Kurt's arms were getting better, that his lungs were getting better, but she had said nothing about his legs. Which he knew meant they were not getting better, they were still paralyzed, and he could read between the lines of his mother's previous letters, that there was more than a slight possibility that they would stay that way. He held the two photographs side by side, it was difficult to believe they were the same man, but they were. The smiles were the same, and though his eyes in the more recent photo revealed a good deal of pain, the pale bluish green eyes were the same. He looked terribly like that sick little boy suffering from rheumatic fever, pale and thin.

"Hey Sir, it's time to go," a voice called from above him. Finn stood, brushing the sand from his pants and tucking the photos and letters back into the small bible and slipping it into his breast pocket. He had a week's leave on a nearby island base, and it couldn't come fast enough.


End file.
